A 


£       REESE    LIBRARY 
•>}•    THK 
VERSITY   OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Accessions 


M',V 
(7 

Slulf  No.- 


May  1,  1849* 

j  1ST  OF  BOOKS 


TICKNOR,   REED  AND  FIELDS, 

Corner  of  OTasjutiflton  anto  School  Streets, 
BOSTON. 


LONGFELLOW'S   POEMS. 


i. 

LONGFELLOW'S   EVANGELINE  ;    A  TALE    OF 

ACADIE.    Just  published.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
II. 

LONGFELLOW'S  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT.    A 

New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

ill.  * 

LONGFELLOW'S  BALLADS    AND    OTHER  POEMS. 

A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
IV. 

LONGFELLOW'S  SPANISH  STUDENT.     A  Play 

in  Three  Acts.    A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
v. 

LONGFELLOW'S  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND 

OTHER  POEMS.  A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents 

VI. 

THE  WAIF.     A  Collection  of  Poems.     Edited   by 

LONGFELLOW.    A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
VII. 

THE  ESTRAY.     A  Collection  of  Poems.     Edited 

by  LONGFELLOW.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 


PROSE  WORKS. 


LONGFELLOW'S  KAVANAGH.     A  TALE.     Ju 

Published.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
II. 

LONGFELLOW'S    OUTRE-MER.      A  Pilgrimage 

Beyond  the  Sea.  N  A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  $1.00. 
in. 

LONGFELLOW'S  HYPERION.     A  ROMANCE.    A 

New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  $1.00. 


A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 


POETRY  • 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.     POEMS.    In  one 

volume,  16mo.    .New  Edition,  Enlarged.    Just  out.    Price  $1.00. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON.     POEMS.     A  New  Edition. 

Enlarged.    In  two  volumes,  ICmo,  price  $1.50. 
in. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON.   THE  PRINCESS.   A  MEDLEY. 

Just  out.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

IV. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.     POEMS,  NARRATIVE 

and  LYRICAL.    A  New  Edition,  Enlarged.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price 
75  cents. 

v. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.  MINSTRELSY,  AN- 
CIENT and  MODERN.  Wrth  an  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION  and 
NOTES.  In  two  volumes,  IGmo,  price  $1.50. 

RICHARD   MONCKTON    MILNES.      POEMS   OF 

MANY  YEARS.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 

VII. 

LEIGH  HUNT.    STORY  OF  RIMINI  and  Other  Poems. 

In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

Till. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES.    From  the  19th  London 

Edition.    Carefully  Revised.     With  an  ORIGINAL  PREFACE  and  NOTES. 
By  HORACE  and  JAMES  SMITH.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

IX. 

BARRY  CORNWALL.     ENGLISH  SONGS  and  other 

SMALL  POEMS.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 
x. 

JOHN  BOWRING.  MATINS  AND  VESPERS,  with  HYMNS 

AND  OCCASIONAL,  DEVOTIONAL,  PIECES.      In  one  volume,  32mo,  cloth, 
gilt  edges,  price  37 1-2  cents. 

xr. 

GEORGE  LUNT.      THE  AGE  OF  GOLD  and  OTHER 

POEMS.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  50  cents. 

Xll. 

MARY  E.  HEWITT.      SONGS  OF  OUR  LAND    and 

OTHER  POEMS.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

Xlll. 

T.  BUCHANAN  READ.     POEMS.     In  one  volume, 

IGtno,  price  50  cents. 

BACH    OP    THE    ABOVE    POEMS    AND    PROSE  WRITINGS,   MAY   BE  HAD   IN 
VARIOUS   STYLES   OP  HANDSOME  BINDING. 


BY  TICKNOR,  REED  AND  FIELDS. 


i. 
ALDERBROOK ;   A  Collection  of  Fanny  Forester's 

VILLAGE  SKETCHES,  POEMS,  etc.      In  two  volumes,  J2mo,  with  a  fine 
Portrait  of  the  Author.    A  New  Edition,  Enlarged.     Just  out. 
n. 

BEN  PERLEY  POORE.     THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF 

Louis  PHILIPPE,  with  Pen  and  Pencil  Sketches  of  his  Friends  and  his 
Successors.  Portraits.  $100. 

in. 

F.  W.  P,  GREENWOOD.      SERMONS   OF   CONSOLA- 

TIOW.  A  iNew  Edition,  on  very  fine  paper  and  large  type.  In  one  vol- 
ume, IGnio,  price  $1.00. 

IV. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN  :  MORAL,  POET- 

ICAL  and  HISTORICAL.     By  MRS.  JAMESON.     New  Edition,  Corrected  and 
Enlarged.    In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 
v. 

MRS.  PUTNAM'S  RECEIPT  BOOK;  AND  YOUNG 

HOUSEKEEPER'S  ASSISTANT.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

VI. 

THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  MAN ;  Considered  in 

Relation  to  External  Objects.  By  GEORGE  COMBE.  With  an  Additional 
Chapter,  on  the  HARMONY  BETWEEN  PHRENOLOGY  AND  REV- 
ELATK  )N.  By  J.  A.  WARNE,  A.  M.  Twenty-sixth  American  Edition. 
In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  75  cents. 

VII. 

ORTHOPHONY  ;    Or  the  Culture  of  the  Voice  in 

Elocution.  A  Manual  of  ELEMENTARY  EXERCISES,  adapted  to  Dr.  Rush's 
"PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  HUMAN  VOICE,"  and  the  system  of  Vocal 
Culture  introduced  by  Mr.  James  E.Murdoch.  Designed  as  an  INTRO- 
DUCTION to  Russell's  "AMERICAN  ELOCUTIONIST."  Compiled 
by  WILLIAM  RUSSELL,  author  of  "  Lessons  in  Enunciation,"  etc.  With 
a  Supplement  on  PURITY  OF  TONE,  by  G.  J.  WEBB,  Professor,  Boston 
Academy  of  Music.  Improved  Edition.  In  one  volume,  12mo,  price 
621-2  cents. 

vni. 

ELEMENTARY  TREATISE  ON  MINERALOGY. 

Comprising  an  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  SCIENCE.  By  WILLIAM 
PHILLIPS.  Fifth  Edition,  from  the  Fourth  London  Edition.  By  ROBERT 
ALUN.  Containing  the  Latest  Discoveries  in  American  and  Foreign 
Mineralogy,  with  numerous  Additions  to  the  Introduction,  by  FRANCIS 
ALGER.  With  numerous  Engravings.  One  volume,  ]2mo,  price  $3.00. 

THE  USE  OF  THE  BLOWPIPE  IN  CHEMISTRY 

AND  MINERALOGY.  By  J.  J.  BERZELIUS.  Translated  from  the  4th 
Enlarged  and  Corrected  Edition,  by  J.  D.  WHITNEY.  With  Plates.  In 
one  volume,  12mo,  price  $1.50. 

x. 

A  BRIEF  PRACTICAL  TREATISE  ON  MOR- 
TARS IN  BUILDING.  With  an  Account  of  the  Processes  employed 
on  the  Public  Works  in  Boston  Harbor.  By  Lieut.  WILLIAM  IJ.  WRIGHT, 
U.  S.  Corps  of  Engineers.  With  Plates.  In  one  volume,  12mo,  price 
$1.00. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  TICKNOR,  REED  AND  FIELDS. 


A  PRACTICAL  TREATISE  ON  THE  CULTIVA- 
TION OF  THE  GRAPE  VINE  ON  OPEN  WALLS.  To  which  is 
added,  a  Descriptive  Account  of  an  Improved  Method  of  Planting  and 
Managing  the  Roots  of  Grape  Vines.  With  Plates.  In  one  volume, 
12niOj  price  62  1-2  cents. 

Xll. 

THE  SCENERY-SHOW-ER;  with  WORD-PAINTINGS 

of  the   BEAUTIFUL,  the  PICTURESQUE,  and  the  GRAND  IN  NATURE.    By 
WARREN  BURTON.    In  one  volume,  18mo,  price  37  1-2  cents. 

xm. 

DR.  JOHN  C.  WARREN.      PHYSICAL  EDUCATION 

and  THE  PRESERVATION  OF  HEALTH.    Third  Edition,  Enlarged.    18mo, 
price  25  cents. 

xiv, 

ANGEL-VOICES  ;  or  WORDS  OF  COUNSEL  FOR  OVER- 

COMING  THE  WORLD.    In  one  volume,  18mo.    A  New  Edition,  Enlarged, 
xv. 

A  BUDGET  OF  LETTERS,   OR  THINGS  WHICH  I 

SAW  ABROAD.    In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 

XVI. 

CONSUELO,    and   the   COUNTESS   OF  RUDOLSTADT. 

By  GEORGE  SAND.    Translated  by  FRANCIS  G.  SHAW.    Complete  in  five 
volumes,  12mo,  price  50  cents  per  volume.    Each  work  sold  separate. 
xvu. 

DR.  WALTER    CHANNING.      A   TREATISE    ON 

ETHERIZATION  IN  CHILDBIRTH.    Illustrated  by  581  cases.    In  one  vol- 
ume, 8vo,  just  published,  price  $2.00. 


FRENCH. 


COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  FRENCH  GRAMMAR; 

Containing  all  the  Rules  of  the  Language,  upon  a  New  and  Improved 
Plan.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  vol.  12mo,  half-embossed  morocco, 
$1.50. 

COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S   SPEAKING  EXERCI- 

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Language.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  vol.  12mo.  half  embossed  mo- 
rocco, 63  cents. 

COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  KEY  TO  THE  FRENCH 

EXEllCISES.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  vol.  12mo,  half-embossed 
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Bound  in  1  volume,  half-embossed  morocco,  $1.00. 

COUNT    DE    LAPORTE'S    SELF  -  TEACHING 

READER.  For  the  Study  of  the  Pronunciation  of  the  French  Lan- 
guage, after  a  Plan  entirely  New,  which  will  enable  the  Student  to 
acquire  with  facility  a  Correct  Pronunciation,  with  or  without  the  assist- 
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embossed  morocco,  50  cents. 

The  above  Series  is  used  in  the  Universities  of  Cambridge,  Hanover,  and  Vir- 
ginia, as  well  as  in  many  other  Colleges,  Academies,  and  Schools, 
in  JVewJ  England  and  elseichere. 


K  AVA  N  A  G  H. 


K  AVANAGH, 


A    TALE. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  Highly  ptll^)ose  never  is  o'ertook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS. 


M  DCCC  XLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND    PRINTED   BY 

METCALF     AND     COMPANY, 

PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


OF  THE 

UUI7EESIT? 


KAVANAGH. 


1. 


GREAT  men  stand  like  solitary  towers  in  the 
city  of  God,  and  secret  passages  running  deep 
beneath  external  nature  give  their  thoughts  inter- 
course with  higher  intelligences,  which  strength- 
ens and  consoles  them,  and  of  which  the  laborers 
on  the  surface  do  not  even  dream  ! 

Some  such  thought  as  this  was  floating  vaguely 
through  the  brain  of  Mr.  Churchill,  as  he  closed 
his  school-house  door  behind  him  ;  and  if  in  any 
degree  he  applied  it  to  himself,  it  may  perhaps  be 
pardoned  in  a  dreamy,  poetic  man  like  him  ;  for 
we  judge  ourselves  by  what  we  feel  capable  of 
doing,  while  others  judge  us  by  what  we  have 
already  done.  And  moreover  his  wife  consider- 
ed him  equal  to  great  things.  To  the  people  in 


4  KAVANAGH, 

the  village,  he  was  the  school-master,  and  nothing 
more.  They  beheld  in  his  form  and  countenance 
no  outward  sign  of  the  divinity  within.  They 
saw  him  daily  moiling  and  delving  in  the  common 
path,  like  a  beetle,  and  little  thought  that  under- 
neath that  hard  and  cold  exterior,  lay  folded  deli- 
cate golden  wings,  wherewith,  when  the  heat  of 
day  was  over,  he  soared  and  revelled  in  the 
pleasant  evening  air. 

To-day  he  was  soaring  and  revelling  before  the 
sun  had  set  ;  for  it  was  Saturday.  With  a  feel- 
ing of  infinite  relief  he  left  behind  him  the  empty 
school-house,  into  which  the  hot  sun  of  a  Sep- 
tember afternoon  was  pouring.  All  the  bright 
young  faces  were  gone  ;  all  the  impatient  little 
hearts  were  gone  ;  all  the  fresh  voices,  shrill,  but 
musical  with  the  melody  of  childhood,  were 
gone  ;  and  the  lately  busy  realm  was  given  up  to 
silence,  and  the  dusty  sunshine,  and  the  old  gray 
flies,  that  buzzed  and  bumped  their  heads  against 
the  window-panes.  The  sound  of  the  outer  door, 
creaking  on  its  hebdomadal  hinges,  was  like  a  sen- 
tinel's challenge,  to  which  the  key  growled  re- 
sponsive in  the  lock  ;  and  the  master,  casting  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  last  caricature  of  himself  in 
red  chalk  on  the  wooden  fence  close  by,  entered 


A    TALE.  5 

with  a  light  step  the  solemn  avenue  of  pines  that 
led  to  the  margin  of  the  river. 

At  first  his  step  was  quick  and  nervous ;  and 
he  swung  his  cane  as  if  aiming  blows  at  some  in- 
visible and  retreating  enemy.  Though  a  meek 
man,  there  were  moments  when  he  remembered 
with  bitterness  the  unjust  reproaches  of  fathers 
and  their  insulting  words  ;  and  then  he  fought  im- 
aginary battles  with  people  out  of  sight,  and  struck 
them  to  the  ground,  and  trampled  upon  them  ;  for 
Mr.  Churchill  was  not  exempt  from  the  weak- 
ness of  human  nature,  nor  the  customary  vexa- 
tions of  a  school-master's  life.  Unruly  sons  and 
unreasonable  fathers  did  sometimes  embitter  his 
else  sweet  days  and  nights.  But  as  he  walked, 
his  step  grew  slower,  and  his  heart  calmer.  The 
coolness  and  shadows  of  the  great  trees  comfort- 
ed and  satisfied  him,  and  he  heard  the  voice  of 
the  wind  as  it  were  the  voice  of  spirits  calling 
around  him  in  the  air.  So  that  when  he  emerged 
from  the  black  woodlands  into  the  meadows  by 
the  river's  side,  all  his  cares  were  forgotten. 

He  lay  down  for  a  moment  under  a  syca- 
more, and  thought  of  the  Roman  Consul  Licinius, 
passing  a  night  with  eighteen  of  his  followers  in 
the  hollow  trunk  of  the  great  Lycian  plane-tree. 


6  KAVANAGH, 

From  the  branches  overhead  the  falling  seeds 
were  wafted  away  through  the  soft  air  on  plumy 
tufts  of  down.  The  continuous  murmur  of  the 
leaves  and  of  the  swift-running  stream  seemed 
rather  to  deepen  than  disturb  the  pleasing  solitude 
and  silence  of  the  place  ;  and  for  a  moment  he 
imagined  himself  far  away  in  the  broad  prairies  of 
the  West,  and  lying  beneath  the  luxuriant  trees 
that  overhang  the  banks  of  the  Wabash  and  the 
Kaskaskia.  He  saw  the  sturgeon  leap  from  the 
river,  and  flash  for  a  moment  in  the  sunshine. 
Then  a  flock  of  wild-fowl  flew  across  the  sky  to- 
wards the  sea-mist  that  was  rising  slowly  in  the 
east  ;  and  his  soul  seemed  to  float  away  on  the 
river's  current,  till  he  had  glided  far  out  into  the 
measureless  sea,  and  the  sound  of  the  wind  among 
the  leaves  was  no  longer  the  sound  of  the  wind, 
but  of  the  sea. 

Nature  had  made  Mr.  Churchill  a  poet,  but  des- 
tiny made  him  a  school-master.  This  produced 
a  discord  between  his  outward  and  his  inward  ex- 
istence. Life  presented  itself  to  him  like  the 
Sphinx,  with  its  perpetual  riddle  of  the  real  and 
the  ideal.  To  the  solution  of  this  dark  problem 
he  devoted  his  days  and  his  nights.  He  was 
forced  to  teach  grammar  when  he  would  fain 


A    TALE.  7 

have  written  poems  ;  and  from  day  to  day,  and 
from  year  to  year,  the  trivial  things  of  life  post- 
poned the  great  designs,  which  he  felt  capable  of 
accomplishing,  but  never  had  the  resolute  courage 
to  begin.  Thus  he  dallied  with  his  thoughts  and 
with  all  things,  and  wasted  his  strength  on  trifles  ; 
like  the  lazy  sea,  that  plays  with  the  pebbles  on 
its  beach,  but  under  the  inspiration  of  the  wind 
might  lift  great  navies  on  its  outstretched  palms, 
and  toss  them  into  the  air  as  playthings. 

The  evening  came.  The  setting  sun  stretched 
his  celestial  rods  of  light  across  the  level  land- 
scape, and,  like  the  Hebrew  in  Egypt,  smote  the 
rivers  and  the  brooks  and  the  ponds,  and  they  be- 
came as  blood. 

Mr.  Churchill  turned  his  steps  homeward.  He 
climbed  the  hill  with  the  old  windmill  on  its  sum- 
mit, and  below  him  saw  the  lights  of  the  village  ; 
and  around  him  the  great  landscape  sinking  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  sea  of  darkness.  He  passed 
an  orchard.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  odor  of 
the  fallen  fruit,  which  seemed  to  him  as  sweet  as 
the  fragrance  of  the  blossoms  in  June.  A  few 
steps  farther  brought  him  to  an  old  and  neglected 
church-yard  ;  and  he  paused  a  moment  to  look  at 
the  white  gleaming  stone,  under  which  slumbered 


KAVANAGH, 

the  old  clergyman,  who  came  into  the  village  in 
the  time  of  the  Indian  wars,  and  on  which  was  re- 
corded that  for  half  a  century  he  had  been  "  a 
painful  preacher  of  the  word."  He  entered  the 
village  street,  and  interchanged  a  few  words  with 
Mr.  Pendexter,  the  venerable  divine,  whom  he 
found  standing  at  his  gate.  He  met,  also,  an  ill- 
looking  man,  carrying  so  many  old  boots  that  he 
seemed  literally  buried  in  them  ;  and  at  intervals 
encountered  a  stream  of  strong  tobacco  smoke, 
exhaled  from  the  pipe  of  an  Irish  laborer,  and 
pervading  the  damp  evening  air.  At  length  he 
reached  his  own  door. 


A    TALE. 


II. 


WHEN  Mr.  Churchill  entered  his  study,  he 
found  the  lamp  lighted,  and  his  wife  waiting  for 
him.  The  wood  fire  was  singing  on  the  hearth 
like  a  grasshopper  in  the  heat  and  silence  of  a 
Summer  noon ;  and  to  his  heart  the  chill  autum- 
nal evening  became  a  Summer  noon.  His  wife 
turned  towards  him  with  looks  of  love  in  her  joy- 
ous blue  eyes  ;  and  in  the  serene  expression  of 
her  face  he  read  the  Divine  beatitude,  "  Blessed 
are  the  pure  in  heart." 

No  sooner  had  he  seated  himself  by  the  fireside 
than  the  door  was  swung  wide  open,  and  on  the 
threshold  stood,  with  his  legs  apart,  like  a  minia- 
ture colossus,  a  lovely,  golden  boy,  about  three 
years  old,  with  long,  light  locks,  and  very  red 
cheeks.  After  a  moment's  pause,  he  dashed  for- 
ward into  the  room  with  a  shout,  and  established 


10  KAVANAGH, 

himself  in  a  large  arm-chair,  which  he  converted 
into  a  carrier's  wagon,  and  over  the  back  of  which 
he  urged  forward  his  imaginary  horses.  He  was 
followed  by  Lucy,  the  maid  of  all  work,  bear- 
ing in  her  arms  the  baby,  with  large,  round  eyes, 
and  no  hair.  In  his  mouth  he  held  an  India  rub- 
ber ring,  and  looked  very  much  like  a  street-door 
knocker.  He  came  down  to  say  good  night,  but 
after  he  got  down,  could  not  say  it  ;  not  being 
able  to  say  any  thing  but  a  kind  of  explosive 
"  Papa  !  "  He  was  then  a  good  deal  kissed  and 
tormented  in  various  ways,  and  finally  sent  off  to 
bed  blowing  little  bubbles  with  his  mouth,  —  Lucy 
blessing  his  little  heart,  and  asseverating  that  no- 
body could  feed  him  in  the  night  without  loving 
him  ;  and  that  if  the  flies  bit  him  any  more  she 
would  pull  out  every  tooth  in  their  heads  ! 

Then  came  Master  Alfred's  hour  of  triumph 
and  sovereign  sway.  The  fire-light  gleamed  on 
his  hard,  red  cheeks,  and  glanced  from  his  liquid 
eyes,  and  small,  white  teeth.  He  piled  his  wagon 
full  of  books  and  papers,  and  dashed  off  to  town 
at  the  top  of  his  speed  ;  he  delivered  and  re- 
ceived parcels  and  letters,  and  played  the  post- 
boy's horn  with  his  lips.  Then  he  climbed  the 
back  of  the  great  chair,  sang  "  Sweep  ho  !  "  as 


A    TALE.  11 

from  the  top  of  a  very  high  chimney,  and,  sliding 
down  upon  the  cushion,  pretended  to  fall  asleep 
in  a  little  white  bed,  with  white  curtains  ;  from 
which  imaginary  slumber  his  father  awoke  him  by 
crying  in  his  ear,  in  mysterious  tones,  — 

"  What  little  boy  is  this  !  " 

Finally  he  sat  down  in  his  chair  at  his  mother's 
knee,  and  listened  very  attentively,  and  for  the 
hundredth  time,  to  the  story  of  the  dog  Jumper, 
which  was  no  sooner  ended,  than  vociferously 
called  for  again  and  again.  On  the  fifth  repetition, 
it  was  cut  as  short  as  the  dog's  tail  by  Lucy,  who, 
having  put  the  baby  to  bed,  now  came  for  Master 
Alfred.  He  seemed  to  hope  he  had  been  forgot- 
ten, but  was  nevertheless  marched  off  to  bed, 
without  any  particular  regard  to  his  feelings,  and 
disappeared  in  a  kind  of  abstracted  mood,  repeat- 
ing softly  to  himself  his  father's  words,  — 

"  Good  night,  Alfred  !" 

His  father  looked  fondly  after  him  as  he  went 
up  stairs,  holding  Lucy  by  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  rubbing  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  these  children,  these  children  !  "  said 
Mr.  Churchill,  as  he  sat  down  at  the  tea-table  ; 
"  we  ought  to  love  them  very  much  now,  for  we 
shall  not  have  them  long  with  us  !  " 


12  KAVANAGH, 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  his  wife,  u  what 
do  you  mean  ?  Does  any  thing  ail  them  ?  Are 
they  going  to  die  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not.  But  they  are  going  to  grow  up, 
and  be  no  longer  children." 

"  O,  you  foolish  man  !  You  gave  me  such  a 
fright  !  " 

"  And  yet  it  seems  impossible  that  they  should 
ever  grow  to  be  men,  and  drag  the  heavy  artil- 
lery along  the  dusty  roads  of  life." 

"  And  I  hope  they  never  will.  That  is  the 
last  thing  I  want  either  of  them  to  do." 

"  O,  I  do  not  mean  literally,  only  figuratively. 
By  the  way,  speaking  of  growing  up  and  growing 
old,  I  saw  Mr.  Pendexter  this  evening,  as  I  came 
home." 

"  And  what  had  he  to  say  ?  " 

cc  He  told  me  he  should  preach  his  farewell 
sermon  to-morrow." 

"  Poor  old  man  !     I  really  pity  him." 

"  So  do  I.  But  it  must  be  confessed  he  is  a 
dull  preacher  ;  and  I  dare  say  it  is  as  dull  work 
for  him  as  for  his  hearers." 

"  Why  are  they  going  to  send  him  away  ?  " 

"  O,  there  are  a  great  many  reasons.  He 
does  not  give  time  and  attention  enough  to  his 


A    TALE.  13 

sermons  and  to  his  parish.  He  is  always  at  work 
on  his  farm  ;  always  wants  his  salary  raised  ;  and 
insists  upon  his  right  to  pasture  his  horse  in  the 
parish  fields." 

"  Hark  !  "  cried  his  wife,  lifting  up  her  face  in 
a  listening  attitude. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  heard  the  baby  !  " 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Mr.  Church- 
ill said,  — 

"  It  was  only  the  cat  in  the  cellar." 

At  this  moment  Lucy  came  in.  She  hesitated 
a  little,  and  then,  in  a  submissive  voice,  asked 
leave  to  go  down  to  the  village  to  buy  some  rib- 
bon for  her  bonnet.  Lucy  was  a  girl  of  fifteen, 
who  had  been  taken  a  few  years  before  from  an 
Orphan  Asylum.  Her  dark  eyes  had  a  gypsy 
look,  and  she  wore  her  brown  hair  twisted  round 
her  head  after  the  manner  of  some  of  Murillo's 
girls.  She  had  Milesian  blood  in  her  veins,  and 
was  impetuous  and  impatient  of  contradiction. 

When  she  had  left  the  room,  the  school-master 
resumed  the  conversation  by  saying,  — 

"  I  do  not  like  Lucy's  going  out  so  much  in 
the  evening.  I  am  afraid  she  will  get  into  trouble. 
She  is  really  very  pretty." 


14  KAVANAGH, 

Then  there  was  another  pause,  after  which  he 
added, — 

"  My  dear  wife,  one  thing  puzzles  me  exceed- 
bgly." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  " 

u  It  is  to  know  what  that  man  does  with  all  the 
old  boots  he  picks  up  about  the  village.  I  met 
him  again  this  evening.  He  seemed  to  have  as 
many  feet  as  Briareus  had  hands.  He  is  a  kind 
of  centipede." 

"  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  It  only  occurred  to  me  at  the 
moment  ;  and  I  never  can  imagine  what  he  does 
with  so  many  old  boots." 


A    TALE.  15 


III. 

WHEN  tea  was  over,  Mr.  Churchill  walked  to 
and  fro  in  his  study,  as  his  custom  was.  And  as 
he  walked,  he  gazed  with  secret  rapture  at  the 
books,  wrhich  lined  the  walls,  and  thought  how 
many  bleeding  hearts  and  aching  heads  had  found 
consolation  for  themselves  and  imparted  it  to 
others,  by  writing  those  pages.  The  books 
seemed  to  him  almost  as  living  beings,  so  instinct 
were  they  with  human  thoughts  and  sympathies. 
It  was  as  if  the  authors  themselves  were  gazing  at 
him  from  the  walls,  with  countenances  neither 
sorrowful  nor  glad,  but  full  of  calm  indifference 
to  fate,  like  those  of  the  poets  who  appeared  to 
Dante  in  his  vision,  walking  together  on  the  dolor- 
ous shore.  And  then  he  dreamed  of  fame,  and 
thought  that  perhaps  hereafter  he  might  be  in 
some  degree,  and  to  some  one,  what  these  men 


16  KAVANAGH, 

were  to  him  ;  and  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment  he  exclaimed  aloud,  — 

u  Would  you  have  me  be  like  these,  dear 
Mary  ?  » 

"  Like  these  what  ?  "  asked  his  wife,  not  com- 
prehending him. 

"  Like  these  great  and  good  men,  —  like  these 
scholars  and  poets,  —  the  authors  of  all  these 
books  !  " 

She  pressed  his  hand  and  said,  in  a  soft,  but 
excited  tone,  — 

u  O,  yes  !     Like  them,  only  perhaps  better  !  " 

u  Then  I  will  write  a  Romance  !  " 

u  Write  it  !  "  said  his  wife,  like  the  angel. 
For  she  believed  that  then  he  would  become 
famous  for  ever  ;  and  that  all  the  vexed  and  busy 
world  would  stand  still  to  hear  him  blow  his  little 
trumpet,  whose  sound  was  to  rend  the  adaman- 
tine walls  of  time,  and  reach  the  ears  of  a  far-off 
and  startled  posterity. 


A    TALE.  17 


IV. 

"  I  WAS  thinking  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Churchill 
a  few  minutes  afterwards,  as  he  took  some  papers 
from  a  drawer  scented  with  a  quince,  and  arranged 
them  on  the  study  table,  while  his  wife  as  usual 
seated  herself  opposite  to  him  with  her  work  in 
her  hand,  —  "I  was  thinking  to-day  how  dull  and 
prosaic  the  study  of  mathematics  is  made  in  our 
school-books  ;  as  if  the  grand  science  of  num- 
bers had  been  discovered  and  perfected  merely 
to  further  the  purposes  of  trade." 

"  For  my  part,"  answered  his  wife,  u  I  do 
not  see  how  you  can  make  mathematics  poetical. 
There  is  no  poetry  in  them." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  very  great   mistake  !      There 

is    something  divine  in  the  science    of  numbers. 

Like  God,  it  holds  the  sea  in  the  hollow  of  its 

hand.     It  measures  the  earth ;  it  weighs  the  stars  ; 

2 


18  KAVANAGH, 

it  illumines  the  universe  ;  it  is  law,  it  is  order,  it 
is  beauty.  And  yet  we  imagine  —  that  is,  most 
of  us  —  that  its  highest  end  and  culminating  point 
is  book-keeping  by  double  entry.  It  is  our  way 
of  teaching  it  that  makes  it  so  prosaic." 

So  saying,  he  arose,  and  went  to  one  of  his 
book-cases,  from  the  shelf  of  which  he  took  down 
a  little  old  quarto  volume,  and  laid  it  upon  the 
table. 

"Now  here,"  he  continued,  "is  a  book  of 
mathematics  of  quite  a  different  stamp  from  ours." 

"  It  looks  very  old.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"It  is  the  Lilawati  of  Bhascara  Acharya, 
translated  from  the  Sanscrit." 

"It  is  a  pretty  name.  Pray  what  does  it 
mean  ?  " 

"  Lilawati  was  the  name  of  Bhascara's  daugh- 
ter ;  and  the  book  was  written  to  perpetuate  it. 
Here  is  an  account  of  the  whole  matter." 

He  then  opened  the  volume,  and  read  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  It  is  said  that  the  composing  of  Lilawati  was 
occasioned  by  the  following  circumstance.  Lila- 
wati was  the  name  of  the  author's  daughter,  con- 
cerning whom  it  appeared,  from  the  qualities  of 
the  Ascendant  at  her  birth,  that  she  was  destined 


A    TALE.  19 

to  pass  her -life  unmarried,  and  to  remain  without 
children.  The  father  ascertained  a  lucky  hour 
for  contracting  her  in  marriage,  that  she  might  be 
firmly  connected,  and  have  children.  It  is  said 
that,  when  that  hour  approached,  he  brought  his 
daughter  and  his  intended  son  near  him.  He  left 
the  hour-cup  on  the  vessel  of  water,  and  kept  in 
attendance  a  time-knowing  astrologer,  in  order 
that,  when  the  cup  should  subside  in  the  water, 
those  two  precious  jewels  should  be  united.  But 
as  the  intended  arrangement  was  not  according  to 
destiny,  it  happened  that  the  girl,  from  a  curiosity 
natural  to  children,  looked  into  the  cup  to  observe 
the  water  coming  in  at  the  hole  ;  when  by  chance 
a  pearl  separated  from  her  bridal  dress,  fell  into 
the  cup,  and,  rolling  down  to  the  hole,  stopped  the 
influx  of  the  water.  So  the  astrologer  waited  in 
expectation  of  the  promised  hour.  When  the 
operation  of  the  cup  had  thus  been  delayed  be- 
yond all  moderate  time,  the  father  was  in  conster- 
nation, and  examining,  he  found  that  a  small  pearl 
had  stopped  the  course  of  the  water,  and  the  long- 
expected  hour  was  passed.  In  short,  the  father, 
thus  disappointed,  said  to  his  unfortunate  daugh- 
ter, I  will  write  a  book  of  your  name,  which  shall 
remain  to  the  latest  times,  — for  a  good  name  is 


20  KAVANAGH, 

a  second  life,  and  the  groundwork  of  eternal  ex- 
istence." 

As  the  school-master  read,  the  eyes  of  his  wife 
dilated  and  grew  tender,  and  she  said,  — 

"  What  a  beautiful  story  !  When  did  it  hap- 
pen ?  " 

"  Seven  hundred  years  ago,  among  the  Hin- 
doos." 

"  Why  not  write  a  poem  about  it  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  already  a  poem  of  itself,  —  one 
of  those  things,  of  which  the  simplest  statement  is 
the  best,  and  which  lose  by  embellishment.  The 
old  Hindoo  legend,  brown  with  age,  would  not 
please  me  so  well  if  decked  in  gay  colors,  and 
hung  round  with  the  tinkling  bells  of  rhyme. 
Now  hear  how  the  book  begins." 

Again  he  read  ;  — 

"  Salutation  to  the  elephant-headed  Being  who 
infuses  joy  into  the  minds  of  his  worshippers, 
who  delivers  from  every  difficulty  those  that  call 
upon  him,  and  whose  feet  are  reverenced  by  the 
gods  !  —  Reverence  to  Ganesa,  who  is  beautiful 
as  the  pure  purple  lotos,  and  around  whose  neck 
the  black  curling  snake  winds  itself  in  playful 
folds  !  " 

"  That  sounds  rather  mystical,"  said  his  wife. 


A    TALE.  21 

"  Yes,  the  book  begins  with  a  salutation  to  the 
Hindoo  deities,  as  the  old  Spanish  Chronicles 
begin  in  the  name  of  God,  and  the  Holy  Virgin. 
And  now  see  how  poetical  some  of  the  examples 
are." 

He  then  turned  over  the  leaves  slowly  and 
read, — 

u  One-third  of  a  collection  of  beautiful  water- 
lilies  is  offered  to  Mahadev,  one-fifth  to  Huri, 
one-sixth  to  the  Sun,  one-fourth  to  Devi,  and  six 
which  remain  are  presented  to  the  spiritual  teach- 
er. Required  the  whole  number  of  water-lilies." 

"  That  is  very  pretty,"  said  the  wife,  "  and 
would  put  it  into  the  boys'  heads  to  bring  you 
pond-lilies." 

"  Here  is  a  prettier  one  still.  One-fifth  of  a 
hive  of  bees  flew  to  the  Kadamba  flower  ;  one- 
third  flew  to  the  Silandhara  ;  three  times  the  dif- 
ference of  these  two  numbers  flew  to  an  arbor  ; 
and  one  bee  continued  flying  about,  attracted  on 
each  side  by  the  fragrant  Ketaki  and  the  Malati. 
What  was  the  number  of  the  bees  ?  " 

"  T  am  sure  I  should  never  be  able  to  tell." 

"  Ten  times  the  square  root  of  a  flock  of 
geese " 

Here  Mrs.  Churchill  laughed  aloud  ;  but  he 
continued  very  gravely,  — 


22  KAVANAGH, 

u  Ten  times  the  square  root  of  a  flock  of 
geese,  seeing  the  clouds  collect,  flew  to  the 
Manus  lake  ;  one-eighth  of  the  whole  flew  from 
the  edge  of  the  water  amongst  a  multitude  of 
water-lilies  ;  and  three  couple  were  observed 
playing  in  the  water.  Tell  me,  my  young  girl 
with  beautiful  locks,  what  was  the  whole  number 
of  geese  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  What  should  you  think  ?  " 

"  About  twenty." 

"  No,  one  hundred  and  forty-four.  Now  try 
another.  The  square  root  of  half  a  number  of 
bees,  and  also  eight-ninths  of  the  whole,  alighted 
on  the  jasmines,  and  a  female  bee  buzzed  respon- 
sive to  the  hum  of  the  male  inclosed  at  night  in  a 
water-lily.  O,  beautiful  damsel,  tell  me  the  num- 
ber of  bees." 

"  That  is  not  there.     You  made  it." 

u  No,  indeed  I  did  not.  I  wish  I  had  made  it. 
Look  and  see." 

He  showed  her  the  book,  and  she  read  it  her- 
self. He  then  proposed  some  of  the  geometrical 
questions. 

"  In  a  lake  the  bud  of  a  water-lily  was  ob- 
served, one  span  above  the  water,  and  when 


A    TALE.  23 

moved  by  the  gentle  breeze,  it  sunk  in  the  water 
at  two  cubits'  distance.  Required  the  depth  of 
the  water." 

"  That  is  charming,  but  must  be  very  difficult. 
I  could  not  answer  it." 

"  A  tree  one  hundred  cubits  high  is  distant 
from  a  well  two  hundred  cubits  ;  from  this  tree 
one  monkey  descends  and  goes  to  the  well ;  an- 
other monkey  takes  a  leap  upwards,  and  then  de- 
scends by  the  hypothenuse  ;  and  both  pass  over 
an  equal  space.  Required  the  height  of  the 
leap." 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  can  answer  that  ques- 
tion yourself,  without  looking  into  the  book,"  said 
the  laughing  wife,  laying  her  hand  over  the  solu- 
tion. "  Try  it." 

"With  great  pleasure,  my  dear  child,"  cried 
the  confident  school-master,  taking  a  pencil  and 
paper.  After  making  a  few  figures  and  calcula- 
tions, he  answered,  — 

"  There,  my  young  girl  with  beautiful  locks, 
there  is  the  answer,  —  forty  cubits." 

His  wife  removed  her  hand  from  the  book,  and 
then,  clapping  both  in  triumph,  she  exclaimed,  — 

"  No,  you  are  wrong,  you  are  wrong,  my 
beautiful  youth  with  a  bee  in  your  bonnet.  It 
is  fifty  cubits  !  " 


24  KAVANAGH, 

"  Then  I  must  have  made  some  mistake." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  Your  monkey  did  not 
jump  high  enough." 

She  signalized  his  mortifying  defeat  as  if  it  had 
been  a  victory,  by  showering  kisses,  like  roses, 
upon  his  forehead  and  cheeks,  as  he  passed  be- 
neath the  triumphal  arch- way  of  her  arms,  trying 
in  vain  to  articulate,  — 

"  My  dearest  Lilawati,  what  is  the  whole 
number  of  the  geese  ?  " 


A    TALE.  25 


UinVEBSITY 


v. 


AFTER  extricating  himself  from  this  pleasing 
dilemma,  he  said,  — 

"  But  I  am  now  going  to  write.  I  must  really 
begin  in  sober  earnest,  or  I  shall  never  get  any 
thing  finished.  And  you  know  I  have  so  many 
things  to  do,  so  many  books  to  write,  that  really 
I  do  not  know  where  to  begin.  I  think  I  will 
take  up  the  Romance  first."  . 

"  It  will  not  make  much  difference,  if  you  only 
begin  !  " 

"  That  is  true.     I  will  not  lose  a  moment." 

"  Did  you  answer  Mr.  Cartwright's  letter 
about  the  cottage  bedstead  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  no  !  I  forgot  it  entirely.  That 
must  be  done  first,  or  he  will  make  it  all  wrong." 

"  And  the  young  lady  who  sent  you  the  poetry 
to  look  over  and  criticize  ?  " 


26  KAVANAGH, 

"  No  ;  I  have  not  had  a  single  moment's  leis- 
ure. And  there  is  Mr.  Hanson,  who  wants  to 
know  about  the  cooking-range.  Confound  it  ! 
there  is  always  something  interfering  with  my 
Romance.  However,  I  will  despatch  those  mat- 
ters very  speedily." 

And  he  began  to  write  with  great  haste.  For 
a  while  nothing  was  heard  but  the  scratching  of 
his  pen.  Then  he  said,  probably  in  connection 
with  the  cooking-range,  — 

<c  One  of  the  most  convenient  things  in  house- 
keeping is  a  ham.  It  is  always  ready,  and  always 
welcome.  You  can  eat  it  with  any  thing  and  with- 
out any  tiling.  It  reminds  me  always  of  the  great 
wild  boar  Scrimner,  in  the  Northern  Mythology, 
who  is  killed  every  day  for  the  gods  to  feast  on 
in  Valhalla,  and  comes  to  life  again  every  night." 

"  In  that  case,  I  should  think  the  gods  would 
have  the  night-mare,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Perhaps  they  do." 

And  then  another  long  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  skating  of  the  swift  pen  over  the  sheet. 
Presently  Mrs.  Churchill  said,  —  as  if  following 
out  her  own  train  of  thought,  while  she  ceased 
plying  her  needle  to  bite  off  the  thread,  which 
ladies  will  sometimes  do  in  spite  of  all  that  is  said 
against  it,  — 


A    1ALE.  27 

"  A  man  came  here  to-day,  calling  himself  the 
agent  of  an  extensive  house  in  the  needle  trade. 
He  left  this  sample,  and  said  the  drill  of  the  eye 
was  superior  to  any  other,  and  they  are  warranted 
not  to  cut  the  thread.  He  puts  them  at  the 
wholesale  price  ;  and  if  I  do  not  like  the  sizes,  he 
offers  to  exchange  them  for  others,  either  sharps 
or  betweens." 

To  this  remark  the  abstracted  school-master 
vouchsafed  no  reply.  He  found  his  half-dozen 
letters  not  so  easily  answered,  particularly  that 
to  the  poetical  young  lady,  and  worked  away 
busily  at  them.  Finally  they  were  finished  and 
sealed  ;  and  he  looked  up  to  his  wife.  She 
turned  her  eyes  dreamily  upon  him.  Slumber 
was  hanging  in  their  blue  orbs,  like  snow  in  the 
heavens,  ready  to  fall.  It  was  quite  late,  and  he 
said  to  her,  — 

"  I  am  too  tired,  my  charming  Lilawati,  and 
you  too  sleepy,  to  sit  here  any  longer  to-night. 
And,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  begin  my  Romance 
without  having  you  at  my  side,  so  that  I  can  read 
detached  passages  to  you  as  I  write,  I  will  put  it 
off  till  to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

He  watched  his  wife  as  she  went  up  stairs  with 
the  light.  It  was  a  picture  always  new  and  al- 


28  KAVAWGH, 

ways  beautiful,  and  like  a  painting  of  Gherardo 
della  Notte.  As  he  followed  her,  he  paused  to 
look  at  the  stars.  The  beauty  of  the  heavens 
made  his  soul  overflow. 

u  How  absolute,"  he  exclaimed,  u  how  abso- 
lute and  omnipotent  is  the  silence  of  the  night  ! 
And  yet  the  stillness  seems  almost  audible  ! 
From  all  the  measureless  depths  of  air  around  us 
comes  a  half-sound,  a  half-whisper,  as  if  we  could 
hear  the  crumbling  and  falling  away  of  earth 
and  all  created  things,  in  the  great  miracle  of 
nature,  decay  and  reproduction,  ever  beginning, 
never  ending,  —  the  gradual  lapse  and  running  of 
the  sand  in  the  great  hour-glass  of  Time  !  " 

In  the  night,  Mr.  Churchill  had  a  singular 
dream.  He  thought  himself  in  school,  where  he 
was  reading  Latin  to  his  pupils.  Suddenly  all  the 
genitive  cases  of  the  first  declension  began  to 
make  faces  at  him,  and  to  laugh  immoderately  ; 
and  when  he  tried  to  lay  hold  of  them,  they 
jumped  down  into  the  ablative,  and  the  circum- 
flex accent  assumed  the  form  of  a  great  mous- 
tache. Then  the  little  village  school-house  was 
transformed  into  a  vast  and  endless  school-house 
of  the  world,  stretching  forward,  form  after  form, 
through  all  the  generations  of  coming  time  ;  and 


A    TALE.  29 

on  all  the  forms  sat  young  men  and  old,  reading 
and  transcribing  his  Romance,  which  now  in  his 
dream  was  completed,  and  smiling  and  passing  it 
onward  from  one  to  another,  till  at  last  the  clock 
in  the  corner  struck  twelve,  and  the  weights 
ran  down  with  a  strange,  angry  whirr,  and  the 
school  broke  up  ;  and  the  school-master  awoke 
to  find  this  vision  of  fame  only  a  dream,  out  of 
which  his  alarm-clock  had  aroused  him  at  an 
untimely  hour. 


30  KAVANAGH, 


VI. 

MEANWHILE,  a  different  scene  was  taking 
place  at  the  parsonage.  Mr.  Pendexter  had 
retired  to  his  study  to  finish  his  farewell  sermon. 
Silence  reigned  through  the  house.  Sunday  had 
already  commenced  there.  The  week  ended 
with  the  setting  of  the  sun,  and  the  evening 
and  the  morning  were  the  first  day. 

The  clergyman  was  interrupted  in  his  labors  by 
the  old  sexton,  who  called  as  usual  for  the  key  of 
the  church.  He  was  gently  rebuked  for  coming 
so  late,  and  excused  himself  by  saying  that  his 
wife  was  worse. 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  said  Mr.  Pendexter  ;  "has 
she  her  mind  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  sexton,  u  as  much  as 
ever." 

"  She   has   been    ill  a  long    time,"  continued 


A    TALE.  31 

the  clergyman.  "  We  have  had  prayers  for  her 
a  great  many  Sundays." 

"It  is  very  true,  sir,"  replied  the  sexton, 
mournfully;  "I  have  given  you  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.  But  you  need  not  pray  for  her  any 
more.  It  is  of  no  use." 

Mr.  Pendexter's  mind  was  in  too  fervid  a  state 
to  notice  the  extreme  and  hopeless  humility  of  his 
old  parishioner,  and  the  unintentional  allusion  to 
the  inefficacy  of  his  prayers.  He  pressed  the  old 
man's  hand  warmly,  and  said,  with  much  emo- 
tion, — 

"  To-morrow  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall 
preach  in  this  parish,  where  I  have  preached  for 
twenty-five  years.  But  it  is  not  the  last  time  I 
shall  pray  for  you  and  your  family." 

The  sexton  retired  also  much  moved  ;  and  the 
clergyman  again  resumed  his  task.  His  heart 
glowed  and  burned  within  him.  Often  his  face 
flushed  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  so  that  he 
could  not  go  on.  Often  he  rose  and  paced  the 
chamber  to  and  fro,  and  wiped  away  the  large 
drops  that  stood  on  his  red  and  feverish  fore- 
head. 

At  length  the  sermon  was  finished.  He  rose 
and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Slowly  the  clock 


32  KAVANAGH, 

struck  twelve.  He  had  not  heard  it  strike  before, 
since  six.  The  moon-light  silvered  the  distant 
hills,  and  lay,  white  almost  as  snow,  on  the  frosty 
roofs  of  the  village.  Not  a  light  could  be  seen  at 
any  window. 

"  Ungrateful  people  !  Could  you  not  watch 
with  me  one  hour  ?  "  exclaimed  he,  in  that  ex- 
cited and  bitter  moment  ;  as  if  he  had  thought 
that  on  that  solemn  night  the  whole  parish  would 
have  watched,  while  he  was  writing  his  farewell 
discourse.  He  pressed  his  hot  brow  against  the 
window-pane  to  allay  its  fever  ;  and  across  the 
tremulous  wavelets  of  the  river  the  tranquil  moon 
sent  towards  him  a  silvery  shaft  of  light,  like  an 
angelic  salutation.  And  the  consoling  thought 
came  to  him,  that  not  only  this  river,  but  all 
rivers  and  lakes,  and  the  great  sea  itself,  were 
flashing  with  this  heavenly  light,  though  he  beheld 
it  as  a  single  ray  only  ;  and  that  what  to  him 
were  the  dark  waves  were  the  dark  providences 
of  God,  luminous  to  others,  and  even  to  himself 
should  he  change  his  position. 


A    TALE.  33 


VII. 

THE  morning  came  ;  the  dear,  delicious,  silent 
Sunday  ;  to  the  weary  workman,  both  of  brain 
and  hand,  the  beloved  day  of  rest.  When  the 
first  bell  rang,  like  a  brazen  mortar,  it  seemed 
from  its  gloomy  fortress  to  bombard  the  village 
with  bursting  shells  of  sound,  that  exploded  over 
the  houses,  shattering  the  ears  of  all  the  parish- 
ioners and  shaking  the  consciences  of  many. 

Mr.  Pendexter  was  to  preach  his  farewell 
sermon.  The  church  was  crowded,  and  only  one 
person  came  late.  It  was  a  modest,  meek  girl, 
who  stole  silently  up  one  of  the  side  aisles,  — 
not  so  silently,  however,  but  that  the  pew-door 
creaked  a  little  as  she  opened  it ;  and  straightway 
a  hundred  heads  were  turned  in  that  direction, 
although  it  was  in  the  midst  of  the  prayer.  Old 
Mrs.  Fairfield  did  not  turn  round,  but  she  and  her 
3 


34  KAVANAGH, 

daughter  looked  at  each  other,  and  their  bonnets 
made  a  parenthesis  in  the  prayer,  within  which 
one  asked  what  that  was,  and  the  other  replied,  — 

"  It  is  only  Alice  Archer.  She  always  comes 
late." 

Finally  the  long  prayer  was  ended,  and  the 
congregation  sat  down,  and  the  weary  children — 
who  are  always  restless  during  prayers,  and  had 
been  for  nearly  half  an  hour  twisting  and  turning, 
and  standing  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the 
other,  and  hanging  their  heads  over  the  backs  of 
the  pews,  like  tired  colts  looking  into  neighbour- 
ing pastures  —  settled  suddenly  down,  and  sub- 
sided into  something  like  rest. 

The  sermon  began,  —  such  a  sermon  as  had 
never  been  preached,  or  even  heard  of  before. 
It  brought  many  tears  into  the  eyes  of  the  pastor's 
friends,  and  made  the  stoutest  hearts  among  his 
foes  quake  with  something  like  remorse.  As  he 
announced  the  text,  "  Yea,  I  think  it  meet  as 
long  as  I  am  in  this  tabernacle  to  stir  you  up,  by 
putting  you  in  remembrance,"  it  seemed  as  if  the 
apostle  Peter  himself,  from  whose  pen  the  words 
first  proceeded,  were  calling  them  to  judgment. 

He  began  by  giving  a  minute  sketch  of  his 
ministry  and  the  state  of  the  parish,  with  all  its 


A    TALE.  35 

troubles  and  dissensions,  social,  political,  and 
ecclesiastical.  He  concluded  by  thanking  those 
ladies  who  had  presented  him  with  a  black  silk 
gown,  and  had  been  kind  to  his  wife  during  her 
long  illness  ;  —  by  apologizing  for  having  ne- 
glected his  own  business,  which  was  to  study  and 
preach,  in  order  to  attend  to  that  of  the  parish, 
which  was  to  support  its  minister,  —  stating  that 
his  own  short-comings  had  been  owing  to  theirs, 
which  had  driven  him  into  the  woods  in  winter 
and  into  the  fields  in  summer  ;  —  and  finally 
by  telling  the  congregation  in  general  that  they 
were  so  confirmed  in  their  bad  habits,  that  no 
reformation  was  to  be  expected  in  them  under 
his  ministry,  and  that  to  produce  one  would  re- 
quire a  greater  exercise  of  Divine  power  than  it 
did  to  create  the  world  ;  for  in  creating  the  world 
there  had  been  no  opposition,  whereas,  in  their 
reformation,  their  own  obstinacy  and  evil  propen- 
sities, and  self-seeking,  and  worldly-mindedness, 
were  all  to  be  overcome  ! 


36  KAVANAGH, 


VIII. 

WHEN  Mr.  Pendexter  had  finished  his  dis- 
course, and  pronounced  his  last  benediction  upon 
a  congregation  to  whose  spiritual  wants  he  had 
ministered  for  so  many  years,  his  people,  now  his 
no  more,  returned  home  in  very  various  states  of 
mind.  Some  were  exasperated,  others  mortified, 
and  others  filled  with  pity. 

Among  the  last  was  Alice  Archer,  —  a  fair, 
delicate  girl,  whose  whole  life  had  been  saddened 
by  a  too  sensitive  organization,  and  by  somewhat 
untoward  circumstances.  She  had  a  pale,  trans- 
parent complexion,  and  large  gray  eyes,  that 
seemed  to  see  visions.  Her  figure  was  slight, 
almost  fragile  ;  her  hands  white,  slender,  diapha- 
nous. With  these  external  traits  her  character 
was  in  unison.  She  was  thoughtful,  silent,  sus- 
ceptible ;  often  sad,  often  in  tears,  often  lost  in 


A    TALE.  37 

reveries.  She  led  a  lonely  life  with  her  mother, 
who  was  old,  querulous,  and  nearly  blind.  She 
had  herself  inherited  a  predisposition  to  blindness  ; 
and  in  her  disease  there  was  this  peculiarity,  that 
she  could  see  in  Summer,  but  in  Winter  the  power 
of  vision  failed  her. 

The  old  house  they  lived  in,  with  its  four 
sickly  Lombardy  poplars  in  front,  suggested 
gloomy  and  mournful  thoughts.  It  was  one  of 
those  houses  that  depress  you  as  you  enter,  as  if 
many  persons  had  died  in  it,  —  sombre,  desolate, 
silent.  The  very  clock  in  the  hall  had  a  dismal 
sound,  gasping  and  catching  its  breath  at  times, 
and  striking  the  hour  with  a  violent,  determined 
blow,  reminding  one  of  Jael  driving  the  nail  into 
the  head  of  Sisera. 

One  other  inmate  the  house  had,  and  only  one. 
This  was  Sally  Manchester,  or  Miss  Sally  Man- 
chester, as  she  preferred  to  be  called  ;  an  excel- 
lent chamber-maid  and  a  very  bad  cook,  for  she 
served  in  both  capacities.  She  was,  indeed,  an 
extraordinary  woman,  of  large  frame  and  mascu- 
line features  ;  —  one  of  those  who  are  born  to 
work,  and  accept  their  inheritance  of  toil  as  if  it 
were  play,  and  who  consequently,  in  the  language 
of  domestic  recommendations,  are  usually  styled 


38  KAVANAGH, 

"  a  treasure,  if  you  can  get  her."  A  treasure 
she  was  to  this  family  ;  for  she  did  all  the  house- 
work, and  in  addition  took  care  of  the  cow  and 
the  poultry,  —  occasionally  venturing  into  the  field 
of  veterinary  practice,  and  administering  lamp-oil 
to  the  cock,  when  she  thought  he  crowed  hoarse- 
ly. She  had  on  her  forehead  what  is  sometimes 
denominated  a  "  widow's  peak,"  —  that  is  to  say, 
her  hair  grew  down  to  a  point  in  the  middle  ;  and 
on  Sundays  she  appeared  at  church  in  a  blue 
poplin  gown,  with  a  large  pink  bow  on  what  she 
called  u  the  congregation  side  of  her  bonnet." 
Her  mind  was  strong,  like  her  person  ;  her  dis- 
position not  sweet,  but,  as  is  sometimes  said  of 
apples  by  way  of  recommendation,  a  pleasant 
sour. 

Such  were  the  inmates  of  the  gloomy  house, 
—  from  which  the  last-mentioned  frequently  ex- 
pressed her  intention  of  retiring,  being  engaged  to 
a  travelling  dentist,  who,  in  filling  her  teeth  with 
amalgam,  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  fill  a  soft 
place  in  her  heart  with  something  still  more  dan- 
gerous and  mercurial.  The  wedding-day  had 
been  from  time  to  time  postponed,  and  at  length 
the  family  hoped  and  believed  it  never  would 
come, — a  wish  prophetic  of  its  own  fulfilment. 


A    TALE. 


39 


Almost  the  only  sunshine  that  from  without 
shone  into  the  dark  mansion  came  from  the  face 
of  Cecilia  Vaughan,  the  school-mate  and  bosom- 
friend  of  Alice  Archer.  They  were  nearly  of 
the  same  age,  and  had  been  drawn  together  by 
that  mysterious  power  which  discovers  and  selects 
friends  for  us  in  our  childhood.  They  sat  togeth- 
er in  school  ;  they  walked  together  after  school  ; 
they  told  each  other  their  manifold  secrets  ;  they 
wrote  long  and  impassioned  letters  to  each  other 
in  the  evening  ;  in  a  word,  they  were  in  love  with 
each  other.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  a  rehearsal  in 
girlhood  of  the  great  drama  of  woman's  life. 


UNIVERSITY 


40  KAVANAGH, 


IX. 

THE  golden  tints  of  Autumn  now  brightened 
the  shrubbery  around  this  melancholy  house,  and 
took  away  something  of  its  gloom.  The  four 
poplar  trees  seemed  all  ablaze,  and  flickered  in 
the  wind  like  huge  torches.  The  little  border  of 
box  rilled  the  air  with  fragrance,  and  seemed  to 
welcome  the  return  of  Alice,  as  she  ascended  the 
steps,  and  entered  the  house  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  usual.  The  brisk  autumnal  air  had  quick- 
ened her  pulse  and  given  a  glow  to  her  cheek. 

She  found  her  mother  alone  in  the  parlour, 
seated  in  her  large  arm-chair.  The  warm  sun 
streamed  in  at  the  uncurtained  windows  ;  and 
lights  and  shadows  from  the  leaves  lay  upon  her 
face.  She  turned  her  head  as  Alice  entered, 
and  said,  — 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Is  it  you,  Alice  ?  " 


A    TALE.  41 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  mother." 

"  Where  have  you  been  so  long  ?  " 

u  I  have  been  nowhere,  dear  mother.  I  have 
come  directly  home  from  church." 

u  How  long  it  seems  to  me  !  It  is  very  late. 
It  is  growing  quite  dark.  I  was  just  going  to  call 
for  the  lights." 

"  Why,  mother !  "  exclaimed  Alice,  in  a 
startled  tone  ;  u  what  do  you  mean  ?  The  sun 
is  shining  directly  into  your  face  ! " 

"  Impossible,  my  dear  Alice.  It  is  quite 
dark.  I  cannot  see  you.  Where  are  you  ? " 

She  leaned  over  her  mother  and  kissed  her. 
Both  were  silent,  —  both  wept.  They  knew  that 
the  hour,  so  long  looked  forward  to  with  dismay, 
had  suddenly  come.  Mrs.  Archer  was  blind  ! 

This  scene  of  sorrow  was  interrupted  by  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  Sally  Manchester.  She,  too, 
was  in  tears  ;  but  she  was  weeping  for  her  own 
affliction.  In  her  hand  she  held  an  open  let- 
ter, which  she  gave  to  Alice,  exclaiming  amid 
sobs,  — 

u  Read  this,  Miss  Archer,  and  see  how  false 
man  can  be  !  Never  trust  any  man  !  They  are 
all  alike  ;  they  are  all  false  —  false  —  false  !  " 

Alice  took  the  letter  and  read  as  follows  :  — 


42  KAVANAGH, 

"It  is  with  pleasure,  Miss  Manchester,  I  sit 
down  to  write  you  a  few  lines.  I  esteem  you  as 
highly  as  ever,  but  Providence  has  seemed  to 
order  and  direct  my  thoughts  and  affections  to 
another,  —  one  in  my  own  neighbourhood.  It 
was  rather  unexpected  to  me.  Miss  Manchester, 
I  suppose  you  are  well  aware  that  we,  as  pro- 
fessed Christians,  ought  to  be  resigned  to  our  lot 
in  this  world.  May  God  assist  you,  so  that  we 
may  be  prepared  to  join  the  great  company  in 
heaven.  Your  answer  would  be  very  desirable. 
I  respect  your  virtue,  and  regard  you  as  a  friend. 
MARTIN  CHERRYFIELD. 

"  P.  S.  The  society  is  generally  pretty  good 
here,  but  the  state  of  religion  is  quite  low." 

"  That  is  a  cruel  letter,  Sally,"  said  Alice,  as 
she  handed  it  back  to  her.  "  But  we  all  have 
our  troubles.  That  man  is  unworthy  of  you. 
Think  no  more  about  him." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Archer, 
hearing  the  counsel  given  and  the  sobs  with  which 
it  was  received.  "  Sally,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Sally  made  no  answer  ;  but  Alice  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Cherryfield  has  fallen  in  love  with  some- 
body else." 


A    TALE.  43 

cc  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Archer,  evidently 
relieved.  "  She  ought  to  be  very  glad  of  it. 
Why  does  she  want  to  be  married  ?  She  had 
much  better  stay  with  us  ;  particularly  now  that 
I  am  blind." 

When  Sally  heard  this  last  word,  she  looked 
up  in  consternation.  In  a  moment  she  forgot 
her  own  grief  to  sympathize  with  Alice  and  her 
mother.  She  wanted  to  do  a  thousand  things  at 
once  ;  —  to  go  here  ;  —  to  send  there  ;  —  to  get 
this  and  that  ;  —  and  particularly  to  call  all  the 
doctors  in  the  neighbourhood.  Alice  assured 
her  it  would  be  of  no  avail,  though  she  finally 
consented  that  one  should  be  sent  for. 

Sally  went  in  search  of  him.  On  her  way,  her 
thoughts  reverted  to  herself ;  and,  to  use  her  own 
phrase,  "  she  curbed  in  like  a  stage-horse,"  as 
she  walked.  This  state  of  haughty  and  offended 
pride  continued  for  some  hours  after  her  return 
home.  Later  in  the  day,  she  assumed  a  decent 
composure,  and  requested  that  the  man  —  she 
scorned  to  name  him  —  might  never  again  be 
mentioned  in  her  hearing.  Thus  was  her  whole 
dream  of  felicity  swept  away  by  the  tide  of  fate, 
as  the  nest  of  a  ground-swallow  by  an  inundation. 
It  had  been  built  too  low  to  be  secure. 


44  KAVANAGH, 

Some  women,  after  a  burst  of  passionate  tears, 
are  soft,  gentle,  affectionate  ;  a  warm  and  genial 
air  succeeds  the  rain.  Others  clear  up  cold,  and 
are  breezy,  bleak,  and  dismal.  Of  the  latter  class 
was  Sally  Manchester.  She  became  embittered 
against  all  men  on  account  of  one  ;  and  was  often 
heard  to  say  that  she  thought  women  were  fools 
to  be  married,  and  that,  for  one,  she  would  not 
marry  any  man,  let  him  be  who  he  might,  —  not 
she  ! 

The  village  doctor  came.  He  was  a  large 
man,  of  the  cheerful  kind  ;  vigorous,  florid,  en- 
couraging ;  and  pervaded  by  an  indiscriminate 
odor  of  drugs.  Loud  voice,  large  cane,  thick 
boots  ;  —  every  thing  about  him  synonymous  with 
noise.  His  presence  in  the  sick-room  was  like 
martial  music,  —  inspiriting,  but  loud.  He  sel- 
dom left  it  without  saying  to  the  patient,  "  I  hope 
you  will  feel  more  comfortable  to-morrow,"  or, 
"  When  your  fever  leaves  you,  you  will  be  bet- 
ter." But,  in  this  instance,  he  could  not  go  so 
far.  Even  his  hopefulness  was  not  sufficient  for 
the  emergency.  Mrs.  Archer  was  blind,  —  be- 
yond remedy,  beyond  hope,  —  irrevocably  blind  ! 


A    TALE.  45 


X. 


ON  the  following  morning,  very  early,  as  the 
school-master  stood  at  his  door,  inhaling  the 
bright,  wholesome  air,  and  beholding  the  shadows 
of  the  rising  sun,  and  the  flashing  dew-drops 
on  the  red  vine-leaves,  he  heard  the  sound 
of  wheels,  and  saw  Mr.  Pendexter  and  his  wife 
drive  down  the  village  street  in  their  old-fashioned 
chaise,  known  by  all  the  boys  in  town  as  "  the 
ark."  The  old  white  horse,  that  for  so  many 
years  had  stamped  at  funerals,  and  gnawed  the 
tops  of  so  many  posts,  and  imagined  he  killed  so 
many  flies  because  he  wagged  the  stump  of  a  tail, 
and,  finally,  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much  dis- 
cord in  the  parish,  seemed  now  to  make  common 
cause  with  his  master,  and  stepped  as  if  endeav- 
ouring to  shake  the  dust  from  his  feet  as  he  passed 
out  of  the  ungrateful  village.  Under  the  axle-tree 


46  KAVANAGH, 

hung  suspended  a  leather  trunk  ;  and  in  the  chaise, 
between  the  two  occupants,  was  a  large  bandbox, 
which  forced  Mr.  Pendexter  to  let  his  legs  hang 
out  of  the  vehicle,  and  gave  him  the  air  of  imi- 
tating the  Scriptural  behaviour  of  his  horse. 
Gravely  and  from  a  distance  he  saluted  the 
school-master,  who  saluted  him  in  return,  with  a 
tear  in  his  eye,  that  no  man  saw,  but  which, 
nevertheless,  was  not  unseen. 

cc  Farewell,  poor  old  man  !  "  said  the  school- 
master within  himself,  as  he  shut  out  the  cold 
autumnal  air,  and  entered  his  comfortable  study. 
"  We  are  not  worthy  of  thee,  or  we  should  have 
had  thee  with  us  forever.  Go  back  again  to  the 
place  of  thy  childhood,  the  scene  of  thine  early 
labors  and  thine  early  love  ;  let  thy  days  end 
where  they  began,  and  like  the  emblem  of  eter- 
nity, let  the  serpent  of  life  coil  itself  round  and 
take  its  tail  into  its  mouth,  and  be  still  from  all 
its  hissings  for  evermore  !  I  would  not  call  thee 
back  ;  for  it  is  better  thou  shouldst  be  where 
thou  art,  than  amid  the  angry  contentions  of  this 
little  town." 

Not  all  took  leave  of  the  old  clergyman  in  so 
kindly  a  spirit.  Indeed,  there  was  a  pretty  gen- 
eral feeling  of  relief  in  the  village,  as  when  one 


A    TALE.  47 

gets  rid  of  an  ill-fitting  garment,  or  old-fashioned 
hat,  which  one  neither  wishes  to  wear,  nor  is 
quite  willing  to  throw  away. 

Thus  Mr.  Pendexter  departed  from  the  village. 
A  few  days  afterwards  he  was  seen  at  a  fall 
training,  or  general  muster  of  the  militia,  making 
a  prayer  on  horseback,  with  his  eyes  wide 
open  ;  a  performance  in  which  he  took  evident 
delight,  as  it  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  going 
quite  at  large  into  some  of  the  bloodiest  cam- 
paigns of  the  ancient  Hebrews. 


48  KAVANAGH, 


XL 

FOR  a  while  the  school-master  walked  to  and 
fro,  looking  at  the  gleam  of  the  sunshine  on  the 
carpet,  and  revelling  in  his  day-dreams  of  unwrit- 
ten books,  and  literary  fame.  With  these  day- 
dreams mingled  confusedly  the  pattering  of  little 
feet,  and  the  murmuring  and  cooing  of  his  children 
overhead.  His  plans  that  morning,  could  he 
have  executed  them,  would  have  filled  a  shelf  in 
his  library  with  poems  and  romances  of  his  own 
creation.  But  suddenly  the  vision  vanished  ;  and 
another  from  the  actual  world  took  its  place.  It 
was  the  canvas-covered  cart  of  the  butcher,  that, 
like  the  flying  wigwam  of  the  Indian  tale,  flitted 
before  his  eyes.  It  drove  up  the  yard  and  stop- 
ped at  the  back  door  ;  and ,  the  poet  felt  that  the 
sacred  rest  of  Sunday,  the  God's-truce  with 
worldly  cares,  was  once  more  at  an  end.  A 


A    TALE.  49 

dark  hand  passed  between  him  and  the  land  of 
light.  Suddenly  closed  the  ivory  gate  of  dreams, 
and  the  horn  gate  of  every-day  life  opened,  and 
he  went  forth  to  deal  with  the  man  of  flesh  and 
blood. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  he  with  a  sigh  ;  u  and  must  my 
life,  then,  always  be  like  the  Sabbatical  river  of 
the  Jews,  flowing  in  full  stream  only  on  the 
seventh  day,  and  sandy  and  arid  all  the  rest  ?  " 

Then  he  thought  of  his  beautiful  wife  and 
children,  and  added,  half  aloud,  — 

"  No  ;  not  so  !  Rather  let  me  look  upon  the 
seven  days  of  the  week  as  the  seven  magic  rings 
of  Jarchas,  each  inscribed  with  the  name  of  a 
separate  planet,  and  each  possessing  a  peculiar 
power  ;  —  or  as  the  seven  sacred  and  mysterious 
stones  which  the  pilgrims  of  Mecca  were  forced 
to  throw  over  their  shoulders  in  the  valleys  of 
Menah  and  Akbah,  cursing  the  devil  and  saying 
at  each  throw,  '  God  is  great  !  ' 

He  found  Mr.  Wilmerdings,  the  butcher,  stand- 
ing beside  his  cart,  and  surrounded  by  five  cats, 
that  had  risen  simultaneously  on  their  hind  legs, 
to  receive  their  quotidian  morning's  meal.  Mr. 
Wilmerdings  not  only  supplied  the  village  with 
fresh  provisions  daily,  but  he  likewise  weighed  all 
4 


50  KAVANAGH, 

the  babies.  There  was  hardly  a  child  in  town 
that  had  not  hung  beneath  his  steelyards,  tied 
in  a  silk  handkerchief,  the  movable  weight  above 
sliding  along  the  notched  beam  from  eight  pounds 
to  twelve.  He  was  a  young  man  with  a  very 
fresh  and  rosy  complexion,  and  every  Monday 
morning  he  appeared  dressed  in  an  exceedingly 
white  frock.  He  had  lately  married  a  milliner, 
who  sold  "Dunstable  and  eleven-braid,  open- 
work and  colored  straws,"  and  their  bridal  tour 
had  been  to  a  neighbouring  town  to  see  a  man 
hanged  for  murdering  his  wife.  A  pair  of  huge 
ox-horns  branched  from  the  gable  of  his  slaughter- 
house ;  and  near  it  stood  the  great  pits  of  the 
tannery,  which  all  the  school-boys  thought  were 
filled  with  blood  ! 

Perhaps  no  two  men  could  be  more  unlike  than 
Mr.  Churchill  and  Mr.  Wilmerdings.  Upon 
such  a  grating,  iron  hinge  opened  the  door  of  his 
daily  life  ;  —  opened  into  the  school-room,  the 
theatre  of  those  life-long  labors,  which  theoreti- 
cally are  the  most  noble,  and  practically  the  most 
vexatious  in  the  world.  Toward  this,  as  soon 
as  breakfast  was  over,  and  he  had  played  awhile 
with  his  children,  he  directed  his  steps.  On  his 
way,  he  had  many  glimpses  into  the  lovely  realms 


A    TALE.  51 

of  Nature,  and  one  into  those  of  Art,  through  the 
medium  of  a  placard  pasted  against  a  wall.  It 
was  as  follows  :  — 

"  The  subscriber  professes  to  take  profiles, 
plain  and  shaded,  which,  viewed  at  right-angles 
with  the  serious  countenance,  are  warranted  to  be 
infallibly  correct. 

"  No  trouble  of  adorning  or  dressing  the  person 
is  required.  He  takes  infants  and  children  at 
sight,  and  has  frames  of  all  sizes  to  accommodate. 

u  A  profile  is  a  delineated  outline  of  the  ex- 
terior form  of  any  person's  face  and  head,  the  use 
of  which  when  seen  tends  to  vivify  the  affections 
of  those  whom  we  esteem  or  love. 

WILLIAM  BANTAM." 

Ere  long  even  this  glimpse  into  the  ideal  world 
had  vanished  ;  and  he  felt  himself  bound  to  the 
earth  with  a  hundred  invisible  threads,  by  which  a 
hundred  urchins  were  tugging  and  tormenting 
him  ;  and  it  was  only  with  considerable  effort, 
and  at  intervals,  that  his  mind  could  soar  to  the 
moral  dignity  of  his  profession. 

Such  was  the  school-master's  life ;  and  a 
dreary,  weary  life  it  would  have  been,  had  not 


52  KAVANAGH, 

poetry  from  within  gushed  through  every  crack 
and  crevice  in  it.  This  transformed  it,  and  made 
it  resemble  a  well,  into  which  stones  and  rubbish 
have  been  thrown  ;  but  underneath  is  a  spring  of 
fresh,  pure  water,  which  nothing  external  can 
ever  check  or  defile. 


A    TALE.  53 


XII. 

MR.  PENDEXTER  had  departed.  Only  a  few 
old  and  middle-aged  people  regretted  him.  To 
these  few,  something  was  wanting  in  the  service 
ever  afterwards.  They  missed  the  accounts  of 
the  Hebrew  massacres,  and  the  wonderful  tales 
of  the  Zumzummims  ;  they  missed  the  venerable 
gray  hair,  and  the  voice  that  had  spoken  to  them 
in  childhood,  and  forever  preserved  the  memory 
of  it  in  their  hearts,  as  in  the  Russian  church  the 
old  hymns  of  the  earliest  centuries  are  still  piously 
retained. 

The  winter  came,  with  ah1  its  affluence  of 
snows,  and  its  many  candidates  for  the  vacant 
pulpit.  But  the  parish  was  difficult  to  please,  as 
all  parishes  are  ;  and  talked  of  dividing  itself,  and 
building  a  new  church,  and  other  extravagances, 
as  all  parishes  do.  Finally  it  concluded  to  re- 


54  KAVANAGH, 

main  as  it  was,  and  the  choice  of  a  pastor  was 
made. 

The  events  of  the  winter  were  few  in  number, 
and  can  be  easily  described.  The  following  ex- 
tract from  a  school-girl's  letter  to  an  absent 
friend  contains  the  most  important :  — 

"  At  school,  things  have  gone  on  pretty  much 
as  usual.  Jane  Brown  has  grown  very  pale. 
They  say  she  is  in  a  consumption  ;  but  I  think  it 
is  because  she  eats  so  many  slate-pencils.  One 
of  her  shoulders  has  grown  a  good  deal  higher 
than  the  other.  Billy  Wilmer dings  has  been 
turned  out  of  school  for  playing  truant.  He 
promised  his  mother,  if  she  would  not  whip  him, 
he  would  experience  religion.  I  am  sure  I  wish 
he  would  ;  for  then  he  would  stop  looking  at  me 
through  the  hole  in  the  top  of  his  desk.  Mr. 
Churchill  is  a  .very  curious  man.  To-day  he 
gave  us  this  question  in  arithmetic  :  c  One-fifth  of 
a  hive  of  bees  flew  to  the  Kadamba  flower  ;  one- 
third  flew  to  the  Silandhara  ;  three  times  the 
difference  of  these  two  numbers  flew  to  an 
arbor  ;  and  one  bee  continued  flying  about, 
attracted  on  each  side  by  the  fragrant  Ketaki 
and  the  Malati.  What  was  the  number  of  bees  ? ' 
Nobody  could  do  the  sum. 


A    TALE.  55 

"  The  church  has  been  repaired,  and  we 
have  a  new  mahogany  pulpit.  Mr.  Churchill 
bought  the  old  one,  and  had  it  put  up  in  his 
study.  What  a  strange  man  he  is  !  A  good  many 
candidates  have  preached  for  us.  The  only  one 
we  like  is  Mr.  Kavanagh.  Arthur  Kavanagh  ! 
is  not  that  a  romantic  name  ?  He  is  tall,  very 
pale,  with  beautiful  black  eyes  and  hair  !  Sally 
—  Alice  Archer's  Sally  —  says  c  he  is  not  a 
man  ;  he  is  a  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  ! '  I  think 
he  is  very  handsome.  And  such  sermons  !  So 
beautifully  written,  so  different  from  old  Mr. 
Pendexter's  !  He  has  been  invited  to  settle 
here  ;  but  he  cannot  come  till  Spring.  Last 
Sunday  he  preached  about  the  ruling  passion. 
He  said  that  once  a  German  nobleman,  when 
he  was  dying,  had  his  hunting-horn  blown  in  his 
bed-room,  and  his  hounds  let  in,  springing  and 
howling  about  him  ;  and  that  so  it  was  with  the 
ruling  passions  of  men  ;  even  around  the  death- 
bed, at  the  well-known  signal,  they  howled  and 
leaped  about  those  that  had  fostered  them  ! 
Beautiful,  is  it  not  ?  and  so  original  !  He  said 
in  another  sermon,  that  disappointments  feed  and 
nourish  us  in  the  desert  places  of  life,  as  the 
ravens  did  the  Prophet  in  the  wilderness  ;  and 


56  KAVANAGH, 

that  as,  in  Catholic  countries,  the  lamps  lighted 
before  the  images  of  saints,  in  narrow  and  danger- 
ous streets,  not  only  served  as  offerings  of  devo- 
tion, but  likewise  as  lights  to  those  who  passed, 
so,  in  the  dark  and  dismal  streets  of  the  city  of 
Unbelief,  every  good  thought,  word,  and  deed 
of  a  man,  not  only  was  an  offering  to  heaven,  but 
likewise  served  to  light  him  and  others  on  their 
way  homeward !  I  have  taken  a  good  many 
notes  of  Mr.  Kavanagh's  sermons,  which  you 
shall  see  when  you  come  back. 

u  Last  week  we  had  a  sleigh-ride,  with  six 
white  horses.  We  went  like  the  wind  over  the 
hollows  in  the  snow  ;  —  the  driver  called  them 
'  thank-you-ma'ams,'  because  they  make  every 
body  bow.  And  such  a  frantic  ball  as  we  had  at 
Beaverstock  !  I  wish  you  had  been  there  !  We 
did  not  get  home  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  ; 
and  the  next  day  Hester  Green's  minister  asked 
her  if  she  did  not  feel  the  fire  of  a  certain  place 
growing  hot  under  her  feet,  while  she  was 
dancing  ! 

"  The  new  fashionable  boarding-school  begins 
next  week.  The  prospectus  has  been  sent  to  our 
house.  One  of  the  regulations  is,  '  Young  ladies 
are  not  allowed  to  cross  their  benders  in  school '  ! 


A    TALE.  57 

Papa  says  he  never  heard  them  called  so  before. 
Old  Mrs.  Plainfield  is  gone  at  last.  Just  before 
she  died,  her  Irish  chamber-maid  asked  her  if  she 
wanted  to  be  buried  with  her  false  teeth  in  ! 
There  has  not  been  a  single  new  engagement 
since  you  went  away.  But  somebody  asked  me 
the  other  day  if  you  were  engaged  to  Mr.  Pills- 
bury.  I  was  very  angry.  Pillsbury,  indeed  ! 
He  is  old  enough  to  be  your  father  ! 

"  What  a  long,  rambling  letter  I  am  writing 
you  !  —  and  only  because  you  will  be  so  naughty 
as  to  stay  away  and  leave  me  all  alone.  If  you 
could  have  seen  the  moon  last  night  !  But  what 
a  goose  I  am  !  —  as  if  you  did  not  see  it !  Was 
it  not  glorious  ?  You  cannot  imagine,  dearest, 
how  every  hour  in  the  day  I  wish  you  were  here 
with  me.  I  know  you  would  sympathize  with 
all  my  feelings,  which  Hester  does  not  at  all. 
For,  if  I  admire  the  moon,  she  says  I  am  roman- 
tic, and,  for  her  part,  if  there  is  any  thing  she 
despises,  it  is  the  moon  !  and  that  she  prefers 
a  snug,  warm  bed  (O,  horrible  !)  to  all  the  moons 
in  the  universe  !  " 


58  KAVANAGH, 


XIII. 

THE  events  mentioned  in  this  letter  were  the 
principal  ones  that  occurred  during  the  winter. 
The  case  of  Billy  Wilmerdings  grew  quite 
desperate.  In  vain  did  his  father  threaten  and 
the  school-master  expostulate  ;  he  was  only  the 
more  sullen  and  stubborn.  In  vain  did  his 
mother  represent  to  his  weary  mind,  that,  if  he 
did  not  study,  the  boys  who  knew  the  dead 
languages  would  throw  stones  at  him  in  the  street ; 
he  only  answered  that  he  should  like  to  see  them 
try  it.  Till,  finally,  having  lost  many  of  his 
illusions,  and  having  even  discovered  that  his 
father  was  not  the  greatest  man  in  the  world, 
on  the  breaking  up  of  the  ice  in  the  river,  to  his 
own  infinite  relief  and  that  of  the  whole  village, 
he  departed  on  a  coasting  trip  in  a  fore-and-aft 
schooner,  which  constituted  the  entire  navigation 
of  Fairmeadow. 


A    TALE.  59 

Mr.  Churchill  had  really  put  up  in  his  study  the 
old  white,  wine-glass-shaped  pulpit.  It  served 
as  a  play-house  for  his  children,  who,  whether 
in  it  or  out  of  it,  daily  preached  to  his  heart, 
and  were  a  living  illustration  of  the  way  to  enter 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Moreover,  he  him- 
self made  use  of  it  externally  as  a  note-book, 
recording  his  many  meditations  with  a  pencil  on 
the  white  panels.  The  following  will  serve  as 
a  specimen  of  this  pulpit  eloquence  :  — 

Morality  without  religion  is  only  a  kind  of 
dead-reckoning,  —  an  endeavour  to  find  our  place 
on  a  cloudy  sea  by  measuring  the  distance  we 
have  run,  but  without  any  observation  of  the 
heavenly  bodies. 

Many  readers  judge  of  the  power  of  a  book 
by  the  shock  it  gives  their  feelings, — as  some 
savage  tribes  determine  the  power  of  muskets  by 
their  recoil ;  that  being  considered  best  which 
fairly  prostrates  the  purchaser. 

Men  of  genius  are  often  dull  and  inert  in 
society  ;  as  the  blazing  meteor,  when  it  descends 
to  earth,  is  only  a  stone. 


60  KAVANAGH, 

The  natural  alone  is  permanent.  Fantastic 
idols  may  be  worshipped  for  a  while  ;  but  at 
length  they  are  overturned  by  the  continual  and 
silent  progress  of  Truth,  as  the  grim  statues 
of  Copan  have  been  pushed  from  their  pedestals 
by  the  growth  of  forest-trees,  whose  seeds  were 
sown  by  the  wind  in  the  ruined  walls. 

The  every-day  cares  and  duties,  which  men 
call  drudgery,  are  the  weights  and  counterpoises 
of  the  clock  of  time,  giving  its  pendulum  a  true 
vibration,  and  its  hands  a  regular  motion  ;  and 
when  they  cease  to  hang  upon  the  wheels,  the 
pendulum  no  longer  swings,  the  hands  no  longer 
move,  the  clock  stands  still. 

The  same  object,  seen  from  the  three  differ- 
ent points  of  view,  —  the  Past,  the  Present,  and 
the  Future,  —  often  exhibits  three  different  faces 
to  us  ;  like  those  sign-boards  over  shop  doors, 
which  represent  the  face  of  a  lion  as  we  ap- 
proach, of  a  man  when  we  are  in  front,  and  of 
an  ass  when  we  have  passed. 

In  character,  in  manners,  in  style,  in  all  things, 
the  supreme  excellence  is  simplicity. 


A    TALE.  61 

With  many  readers,  brilliancy  of  style  passes 
for  affluence  of  thought ;  they  mistake  buttercups 
in  the  grass  for  immeasurable  gold  mines  under 
ground. 

The  motives  and  purposes  of  authors  are  not 
always  so  pure  and  high,  as,  in  the  enthusiasm 
of  youth,  we  sometimes  imagine.  To  many  the 
trumpet  of  fame  is  nothing  but  a  tin  horn  to  call 
them  home,  like  laborers  from  the  field,  at  dinner- 
time ;  and  they  think  themselves  lucky  to  get  the 
dinner. 

The  rays  of  happiness,  like  those  of  light,  are 
colorless  when  unbroken. 

Critics  are  sentinels  in  the  grand  army  of 
letters,  stationed  at  the  corners  of  newspapers 
and  reviews,  to  challenge  every  new  author. 

The  country  is  lyric,  —  the  town  dramatic. 
When  mingled,  they  make  the  most  perfect 
musical  drama.  . 

Our  passions  never  wholly  die  ;  but  in  the 
last  cantos  of  life's  romantic  epos,  they  rise  up 


62  KAVANAGH, 

again  and  do  battle,  like  some  of  Ariosto's  he- 
roes, who  have  already  been  quietly  interred, 
and  ought  to  be  turned  to  dust. 

This  country  is  not  priest-ridden,  but  press- 
ridden. 

Some  critics  have  the  habit  of  rowing  up 
the  Heliconian  rivers  with  their  backs  turned, 
so  as  to  see  the  landscape  precisely  as  the  poet 
did  not  see  it.  Others  see  faults  in  a  book  much 
larger  than  the  book  itself ;  as  Sancho  Panza, 
with  his  eyes  blinded,  beheld  from  his  wooden 
horse  the  earth  no  larger  than  a  grain  of  mus- 
tard-seed, and  the  men  and  women  on  it  as  large 
as  hazel-nuts. 

Like  an  inundation  of  the  Indus  is  the  course 
of  Time.  We  look  for  the  homes  of  our  child- 
hood, they  are  gone  ;  for  the  friends  of  our  child- 
hood, they  are  gone.  The  loves  and  animosities 
of  youth,  where  are  they  ?  Swept  away  like  the 
camps  that  had  been  pitched  in  the  sandy  bed 
of  the  river. 

As  no  saint  can  be  canonized  until  the  Devil's 


A    TALE.  63 

Advocate  has  exposed  all  his  evil  deeds,  and 
showed  why  he  should  not  be  made  a  saint,  so  no 
poet  can  take  his  station  among  the  gods  until 
the  critics  have  said  all  that  can  be  said  against 
him. 

It  is  curious  to  note  the  old  sea-margins  of 
human  thought  !  Each  subsiding  century  reveals 
some  new  mystery  ;  we  build  where  monsters 
used  to  hide  themselves. 


64  KAVANAGH, 


XIV. 

AT  length  the  Spring  came,  and  brought  the 
birds,  and  the  flowers,  and  Mr.  Kavanagh,  the 
new  clergyman,  who  was  ordained  with  all  the 
pomp  and  ceremony  usual  on  such  occasions. 
The  opening  of  the  season  furnished  also  the 
theme  of  his  first  discourse,  which  some  of  the 
congregation  thought  very  beautiful,  and  others 
very  incomprehensible. 

Ah,  how  wonderful  is  the  advent  of  the 
Spring  !  —  the  great  annual  miracle  of  the  blos- 
soming of  Aaron's  rod,  repeated  on  myriads  and 
myriads  of  branches  !  —  the  gentle  progression 
and  growth  of  herbs,  flowers,  trees,  —  gentle, 
and  yet  irrepressible,  —  which  no  force  can  stay, 
no  violence  restrain,  like  love,  that  wins  its  way 
and  cannot  be  withstood  by  any  human  power, 
because  itself  is  divine  power.  If  Spring  came 


A    TALE.  65 

but  once  in  a  century,  instead  of  once  a  year, 
or  burst  forth  with  the  sound  of  an  earthquake, 
and  not  in  silence,  what  wonder  and  expectation 
would  there  be  in  all  hearts  to  behold  the  mi- 
raculous change  ! 

But  now  the  silent  succession  suggests  nothing 
but  necessity.  To  most  men,  only  the  cessation 
of  the  miracle  would  be  miraculous,  and  the  per- 
petual exercise  of  God's  power  seems  less  won- 
derful than  its  withdrawal  would  be.  We  are 
like  children  who  are  astonished  and  delighted 
only  by  the  second-hand  of  the  clock,  not  by 
the  hour-hand. 

Such  was  the  train  of  thought  with  which 
Kavanagh  commenced  his  sermon.  And  then, 
with  deep  solemnity  and  emotion,  he  proceeded 
to  speak  of  the  Spring  of  the  soul,  as  from  its 
cheerless  wintry  distance  it  turns  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  great  Sun,  and  clothes  its  dry  and 
withered  branches  anew  with  leaves  and  blossoms, 
unfolded  from  within  itself,  beneath  the  pene- 
trating and  irresistible  influence. 

While  delivering  the  discourse,  Kavanagh  had 
not  succeeded  so  entirely  in  abstracting  him- 
self from  all  outward  things  as  not  to  note  in 
some  degree  its  effect  upon  his  hearers.  As  in 
5 


66  KAVANAGH, 

modern  times  no  applause  is  permitted  in  our 
churches,  however  moved  the  audience  may  be, 
and,  consequently,  no  one  dares  wave  his  hat  and 
shout,  —  u  Orthodox  Chrysostom  !  Thirteenth 
Apostle  !  Worthy  the  Priesthood  !  "  —  as  was 
done  in  the  days  of  the  Christian  Fathers  ;  and, 
moreover,  as  no  one  after  church  spoke  to  him 
of  his  sermon,  or  of  any  thing  else,  —  he  went 
home  with  rather  a  heavy  heart,  and  a  feeling 
of  discouragement.  One  thing  had  cheered  and 
consoled  him.  It  was  the  pale  countenance  of 
a  young  girl,  whose  dark  eyes  had  been  fixed 
upon  him  during  the  whole  discourse  with  un- 
flagging interest  and  attention.  She  sat  alone 
in  a  pew  near  the  pulpit.  It  was  Alice  Archer. 
Ah  !  could  he  have  known  how  deeply  sank  his 
words  into  that  simple  heart,  he  might  have 
shuddered  with  another  kind  of  fear  than  that 
of  not  moving  his  audience  sufficiently  ! 


A    TALE.  67 


OF  THE 

innVEHSITY 


XV. 

ON  the  following  morning  Kavanagh  sat  musing 
upon  his  worldly  affairs,  and  upon  various  lit- 
tle household  arrangements  which  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  make.  To  aid  him  in 
these,  he  had  taken  up  the  village  paper,  and 
was  running  over  the  columns  of  advertisements, 
—  those  narrow  and  crowded  thoroughfares,  in 
which  the  wants  and  wishes  of  humanity  display 
themselves  like  mendicants  without  disguise.  His 
eye  ran  hastily  over  the  advantageous  offers 
of  the  cheap  tailors  and  the  dealers  in  patent 
medicines.  He  wished  neither  to  be  clothed 
nor  cured.  In  one  place  he  saw  that  a  young 
lady,  perfectly  competent,  desired  to  form  a 
class  of  young  mothers  and  nurses,  and  to  in- 
struct them  in  the  art  of  talking  to  infants  so 
as  to  interest  and  amuse  them  ;  and  in  another, 


68  KAVANAGH, 

that  the  firemen  of  Fairmeadow  wished  well  to 
those  hostile  editors  who  had  called  them  gam- 
blers, drunkards,  and  rioters,  and  hoped  that  they 
might  be  spared  from  that  great  fire  which  they  - 
were  told  could  never  be  extinguished  !  Finally 
his  eye  rested  on  the  advertisement  of  a  carpet 
warehouse,  in  which  the  one-price  system  was 
strictly  adhered  to.  It  was  farther  stated  that  a 
discount  would  be  made  u  to  clergymen  on  small 
salaries,  feeble  churches,  and  charitable  institu- 
tions." Thinking  that  this  was  doubtless  the 
place  for  one  who  united  in  himself  two  of  these 
qualifications  for  a  discount,  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  he  took  his  hat  and  sallied  forth  into 
the  street. 

A  few  days  previous,  Kavanagh  had  discovered 
in  the  tower  of  the  church  a  vacant  room,  which 
he  had  immediately  determined  to  take  possession 
of,  and  to  convert  into  a  study.  From  this 
retreat,  through  the  four  oval  windows,  fronting 
the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  he  could  look 
down  upon  the  streets,  the  roofs  and  gardens  of 
the  village,  —  on  the  winding  river,  the  meadows, 
the  farms,  the  distant  blue  mountains.  Here 
he  could  sit  and  meditate,  in  that  peculiar  sense 
of  seclusion  and  spiritual  elevation,  that  entire 


A    TALE. 


separation  from  the  world  below,  which  a  cham- 
ber in  a  tower  always  gives.  Here,  uninter- 
rupted and  aloof  from  all  intrusion,  he  could 
pour  his  heart  into  those  discourses,  with  which 
he  hoped  to  reach  and  move  the  hearts  of  his 
parishioners. 

It  was  to  furnish  this  retreat,  that  he  went  forth 
on  the  Monday  morning  after  his  first  sermon. 
He  was  not  long  in  procuring  the  few  things 
needed,  —  the  carpet,  the  table,  the  chairs,  the 
shelves  for  books  ;  and  was  returning  thought- 
fully homeward,  when  his  eye  was  caught  by  a 
sign-board  on  the  corner  of  the  street,  inscribed 
"  Moses  Merry  weather,  Dealer  in  Singing  Birds, 
foreign  and  domestic."  He  saw  also  a  whole 
chamber  window  transformed  into  a  cage,  in 
which  sundry  canary-birds,  and  others  of  gayer 
plumage,  were  jargoning  together,  like  people 
in  the  market-places  of  foreign  towns.  At  the 
sight  of  these  old  favorites,  a  long  slumbering 
passion  awoke  within  him  ;  and  he  straightway 
ascended  the  dark  wooden  staircase,  with  the 
intent  of  enlivening  his  solitary  room  with  the 
vivacity  and  songs  of  these  captive  ballad-singers. 

In  a  moment  he  found  himself  in  a  little  room 
hung  round  with  cages,  roof  and  walls  ;  full  of 


70  KAVANAGH, 

sunshine  ;  full  of  twitterings,  cooings,  and  flutter- 
ings  ;  full  of  downy  odors,  suggesting  nests,  and 
dovecots,  and  distant  islands  inhabited  only  by 
birds.  The  taxidermist  —  the  Selkirk  of  the 
sunny  island  —  was  not  there  ;  but  a  young  lady 
of  noble  mien,  who  was  looking  at  an  English 
goldfinch  in  a  square  cage  with  a  portico,  turned 
upon  him,  as  he  entered,  a  fair  and  beautiful  face, 
shaded  by  long,  light  locks,  in  which  the  sunshine 
seemed  entangled,  as  among  the  boughs  of  trees. 
That  face  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  yet  it 
seemed  familiar  to  him  ;  and  the  added  light  in 
her  large,  celestial  eyes,  and  the  almost  imper- 
ceptible expression  that  passed  over  her  face, 
showed  that  she  knew  who  he  was. 

At  the  same  moment  the  taxidermist  presented 
himself,  coming  from  an  inner  room  ;  —  a  little 
man  in  gray,  with  spectacles  upon  his  nose, 
holding  in  his  hands,  with  wings  and  legs  drawn 
close  and  smoothly  together,  like  the  green  husks 
of  the  maize  ear,  a  beautiful  carrier-pigeon,  who 
turned  up  first  one  bright  eye  and  then  the  other, 
as  if  asking,  "What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
me  now  ?  "  This  silent  inquiry  was  soon  an- 
swered by  Mr.  Merryweather,  who  said  to  the 
young  lady,  — 


A    TALE.  71 

"  Here,  Miss  Vaughan,  is  the  best  carrier- 
pigeon  in  my  whole  collection.  The  real  Co- 
lumba  Tabullaria.  He  is  about  three  years 
old,  as  you  can  see  by  his  wattle." 

"A  very  pretty  bird,"  said  the  lady;  "and 
how  shall  I  train  it  ?  " 

"O,  that  is  very  easy.  You  have  only  to  keep 
it  shut  up  for  a  few  days,  well  fed  and  well 
treated.  Then  take  it  in  an  open  cage  to  the 
place  you  mean  it  to  fly  to,  and  do  the  same 

thing   there.       Afterwards   it   will   give   you  no 
*» 

trouble  ;  it  will  always  fly  between  those  two 
places." 

"  That,  certainly,  is  not  very  difficult.  At  all 
events,  I  will  make  the  trial.  You  may  send  the 
bird  home  to  me.  On  what  shall  I  feed  it  ?  " 

"  On  any  kind  of  grain,  — barley  and  buck- 
wheat are  best ;  and  remember  to  let  it  have  a 
plenty  of  gravel  in  the  bottom  of  its  cage." 

"  I  will  not  forget.  Send  me  the  bird  to-day, 
if  possible." 

With  these  words  she  departed,  much  too 
soon  for  Kavanagh,  who  was  charmed  with  her 
form,  her  face,  her  voice  ;  and  who,  when  left 
alone  with  the  little  taxidermist,  felt  that  the 
momentary  fascination  of  the  place  was  gone. 


72  KAVANAGH, 

He  heard  no  longer  the  singing  of  the  birds  ;  he 
saw  no  longer  their  gay  plumage  ;  and  having 
speedily  made  the  purchase  of  a  canary  and  a 
cage,  he  likewise  departed,  thinking  of  the  carrier- 
pigeons  of  Bagdad,  and  the  columbaries  of  Egypt, 
stationed  at  fixed  intervals  as  relays  and  resting- 
places  for  the  flying  post.  With  an  indefinable 
feeling  of  sadness,  too,  came  wafted  like  a  per- 
fume through  his  memory  those  tender,  melan- 
choly lines  of  Maria  del  Occidente  :  — 

"  And  as  the  dove,  to  far  Palmyra  flying, 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam, 
Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream  j 

So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring,  — 
Love's  pure,  congenial  spring  unfound,  unquaffed,  — 

Suffers,  recoils,  then,  thirsty  and  despairing 
Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest  draught." 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Merry  weather,  left  to  him- 
self, walked  about  his  aviary,  musing,  and  talking 
to  his  birds.  Finally  he  paused  before  the  tin 
cage  of  a  gray  African  parrot,  between  which 
and  himself  there  was  a  strong  family  likeness, 
and,  giving  it  his  finger  to  peck  and  perch  upon, 
conversed  with  it  in  that  peculiar  dialect  with 


A    TALE.  73 

which  it  had  often  made  vocal  the  distant  groves 
of  Zanguebar.  He  then  withdrew  to  the  inner 
room,  where  he  resumed  his  labor  of  stuffing  a 
cardinal  grossbeak,  saying  to  himself  between 
whiles,  — 

"  I  wonder  what  Miss  Cecilia  Vaughan  means 
to  do  with  a  carrier-pigeon  !  " 

Some  mysterious  connection  he  had  evidently 
established  already  between  this  pigeon  and  Mr. 
Kavanagh  ;  for,  continuing  his  revery,  he  said, 
half  aloud, — 

"  Of  course  she  would  never  think  of  marrying 
a  poor  clergyman  !  " 


74  KAVANAGH, 


XVI. 

THE  old  family  mansion  of  the  Vaughans 
stood  a  little  out  of  town,  in  the  midst  of  a 
pleasant  farm.  The  county  road  was  not  near 
enough  to  annoy  ;  and  the  rattling  wheels  and 
little  clouds  of  dust  seemed  like  friendly  saluta- 
tions from  travellers  as  they  passed.  They 
spoke  of  safety  and  companionship,  and  took 
away  all  loneliness  from  the  solitude. 

On  three  sides,  the  farm  was  inclosed  by 
willow  and  alder  hedges,  and  the  flowing  wall 
of  a  river ;  nearer  the  house  were  groves 
clear  of  all  underwood,  with  rocky  knolls,  and 
breezy  bowers  of  beech  ;  and  afar  off  the  blue 
hills  broke  the  horizon,  creating  secret  longings 
for  what  lay  beyond  them,  and  filling  the  mind 
with  pleasant  thoughts  of  Prince  Rasselas  and  the 
Happy  Valley. 


A    TALE.  75 

The  house  was  one  of  the  few  old  houses  still 
standing  in  New  England; — a  large,  square 
building,  with  a  portico  in  front,  whose  door 
in  Summer  time  stood  open  from  morning  until 
night.  A  pleasing  stillness  reigned  about  it  ; 
and  soft  gusts  of  pine-embalmed  air,  and  distant 
cawings  from  the  crow-haunted  mountains,  filled 
its  airy  and  ample  halls. 

In  this  old-fashioned  house  had  Cecilia  Vaughan 
grown  up  to  maidenhood.  The  travelling  shad- 
ows of  the  clouds  on  the  hill-sides,  —  the  sudden 
Summer  wind,  that  lifted  the  languid  leaves,  and 
rushed  from  field  to  field,  from  grove  to  grove, 
the  forerunner  of  the  rain,  — and,  most  of  all, 
the  mysterious  mountain,  whose  coolness  was  a 
perpetual  invitation  to  her,  and  whose  silence  a 
perpetual  fear,  —  fostered  her  dreamy  and  poetic 
temperament.  Not  less  so  did  the  reading  of 
poetry  and  romance  in  the  long,  silent,  solitary 
winter  evenings.  Her  mother  had  been  dead  for 
many  years,  and  the  memory  of  that  mother  had 
become  almost  a  religion  to  her.  She  recalled 
it  incessantly  ;  and  the  reverential  love,  which 
it  inspired,  completely  filled  her  soul  with  melan- 
choly delight.  Her  father  was  a  kindly  old 
man  ;  a  judge  in  one  of  the  courts  ;  digni- 


76  KAVANAGH, 

fied,  affable,  somewhat  bent  by  his  legal  erudi- 
tion, as  a  shelf  is  by  the  weight  of  the  books 
upon  it.  His  papers  encumbered  the  study 
table  ; — his  law  books,  the  study  floor.  They 
seemed  to  shut  out  from  his  mind  the  lovely 
daughter,  who  had  grown  up  to  womanhood 
by  his  side,  but  almost  without  his  recognition. 
Always  affectionate,  always  indulgent,  he  left 
her  to  walk  alone,  without  his  stronger  thought 
and  firmer  purpose  to  lean  upon  ;  and  though  her 
education  had  been,  on  this  account,  somewhat 
desultory,  and  her  imagination  indulged  in  many 
dreams  and  vagaries,  yet,  on  the  whole,  the  result 
had  been  more  favorable  than  in  many  cases  where 
the  process  of  instruction  has  been  too  diligently 
carried  on,  and  where,  as  sometimes  on  the  roofs 
of  farm-houses  and  barns,  the  scaffolding  has 
been  left  to  deform  the  building. 

Cecilia's  bosom-friend  at  school  was  Alice 
Archer  ;  and,  after  they  left  school,  the  love  be- 
tween them,  and  consequently  the  letters,  rather 
increased  than  diminished.  These  two  young 
hearts  found  not  only  a  delight,  but  a  necessity 
in  pouring  forth  their  thoughts  and  feelings  to 
each  other  ;  and  it  was  to  facilitate  this  inter- 
communication, for  whose  exigencies  the  ordi- 


A    TALE.  77 

nary  methods  were  now  found  inadequate,  that 
the  carrier-pigeon  had  been  purchased.  He  was 
to  be  the  flying  post ;  their  bed-rooms  the  dove- 
cots, the  pure  and  friendly  columbaria. 

Endowed  with  youth,  beauty,  talent,  fortune, 
and,  moreover,  with  that  indefinable  fascination 
which  has  no  name,  Cecilia  Vaughan  was  not 
without  lovers,  avowed  and  unavowed  ;  —  young 
men,  who  made  an  ostentatious  display  of  their 
affection;  —  boys,  who  treasured  it  in  their  bo- 
soms, as  something  indescribably  sweet  and  pre- 
cious, perfuming  all  the  chambers  of  the  heart  with 
its  celestial  fragrance.  Whenever  she  returned 
from  a  visit  to  the  city,  some  unknown  youth 
of  elegant  manners  and  varnished  leather  boots 
was  sure  to  hover  round  the  village  inn  for  a  few 
days,  —  was  known  to  visit  the  Vaughans  assid- 
uously, and  then  silently  to  disappear,  and  be 
seen  no  more.  Of  course,  nothing  could  be 
known  of  the  secret  history  of  such  individuals  ; 
but  shrewd  surmises  were  formed  as  to  their 
designs  and  their  destinies  ;  till  finally,  any  well- 
dressed  stranger,  lingering  in  the  village  without 
ostensible  business,  was  set  down  as  "  one  of 
Miss  Vaughan's  lovers." 

In  all  this,  what  a  contrast  was  there  between 


78  KAVANAGH, 

the  two  young  friends  !  The  wealth  of  one  and 
the  poverty  of  the  other  were  not  so  strikingly 
at  variance,  as  this  affluence  and  refluence  of 
love.  To  the  one,  so  much  was  given  that  she 
became  regardless  of  the  gift ;  from  the  other,  so 
much  withheld,  that,  if  possible,  she  exaggerated 
its  importance. 


A    TALE. 


XVII. 

IN  addition  to  these  transient  lovers,  who  were 
but  birds  of  passage,  winging  their  way,  in  an 
incredibly  short  space  of  time,  from  the  torrid 
to  the  frigid  zone,  there  was  in  the  village  a 
domestic  and  resident  adorer,  whose  love  for 
himself,  for  Miss  Vaughan,  and  for  the  beauti- 
ful, had  transformed  his  name  from  Hiram  A. 
Hawkins  to  H.  Adolphus  Hawkins.  He  was 
a  dealer  in  English  linens  and  carpets  ;  —  a  pro- 
fession which  of  itself  fills  the  mind  with  ideas 
of  domestic  comfort.  His  waistcoats  were  made 
like  Lord  Melbourne's  in  the  illustrated  English 
papers,  and  his  shiny  hair  went  off  to  the  left 
in  a  superb  sweep,  like  the  hand-rail  of  a  ban- 
nister. He  wore  many  rings  on  his  fingers, 
and  several  breast-pins  and  gold  chains  dis- 
posed about  his  person.  On  all  his  bland  physi- 


80  KAVANAGH, 

ognomy  was  stamped,  as  on  some  of  his  linens, 
u  Soft  finish  for  family  use."  Every  thing 
about  him  spoke  the  lady's  man.  He  was,  in 
fact,  a  perfect  ring-dove  ;  and,  like  the  rest  of 
his  species,  always  walked  up  to  the  female, 
and,  bowing  his  head,  swelled  out  his  white  crop, 
and  uttered  a  very  plaintive  murmur. 

Moreover,  Mr.  Hiram  Adolphus  Hawkins 
was  a  poet,  —  so  much  a  poet,  that,  as  his  sister 
frequently  remarked,  he  "  spoke  blank  verse 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family."  The  general 
tone  of  his  productions  was  sad,  desponding, 
perhaps  slightly  morbid.  How  could  it  be  other- 
wise with  the  writings  of  one  who  had  never 
been  the  world's  friend,  nor  the  world  his  ? 
who  looked  upon  himself  as  "  a  pyramid  of 
mind  on  the  dark  desert  of  despair  "?  and  who, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  had  drunk  the  bitter 
draught  of  life  to  the  dregs,  and  dashed  the 
goblet  down  ?  His  productions  were  published 
in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  the  Fairmeadow  Adver- 
tiser ;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  know,  that,  in  private 
life,  as  his  sister  remarked,  he  was  "  by  no 
means  the  censorious  and  moody  person  some 
of  his  writings  might  imply." 

Such   was    the    personage    who    assumed    to 


A    TALE. 


81 


himself  the  perilous  position  of  Miss  Vaughan's 
permanent  admirer.  He  imagined  that  it  was 
impossible  for  any  woman  to  look  upon  him  and 
not  love  him.  Accordingly,  he  paraded  him- 
self at  his  shop-door  as  she  passed ;  he  pa- 
raded himself  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  ; 
he  paraded  himself  at  the  church-steps  on  Sun- 
day. He  spied  her  from  the  window  ;  he  sallied 
from  the  door  ;  he  followed  her  with  his  eyes  ; 
he  followed  her  with  his  whole  august  person  ; 
he  passed  her  and  repassed  her,  and  turned 
back  to  gaze  ;  he  lay  in  wait  with  dejected 
countenance  and  desponding  air  ;  he  persecuted 
her  with  his  looks  ;  he  pretended  that  their 
souls  could  comprehend  each  other  without 
words  ;  and  whenever  her  lovers  were  alluded 
to  in  his  presence,  he  gravely  declared,  as  one 
who  had  reason  to  know,  that,  if  Miss  Vaughan 
ever  married,  it  would  be  some  one  of  gigantic 
intellect ! 

Of  these  persecutions  Cecilia  was  for  a  long 
time  the  unconscious  victim.  She  saw  this 
individual,  with  rings  and  strange  waistcoats,  per- 
forming his  gyrations  before  her,  but  did  not 
suspect  that  she  was  the  centre  of  attraction,  — 
not  imagining  that  any  man  would  begin  his 
6 


82  KAVANAGH, 

wooing  with  such  outrages.  Gradually  the  truth 
dawned  upon  her,  and  became  the  source  of 
indescribable  annoyance,  which  was  augmented 
by  a  series  of  anonymous  letters,  written  in  a 
female  hand,  and  setting  forth  the  excellences 
of  a  certain  mysterious  relative," — his  modesty, 
his  reserve,  his  extreme  delicacy,  his  talent  for 
poetry,  —  rendered  authentic  by  extracts  from  his 
papers,  made,  of  course,  without  the  slightest 
knowledge  or  suspicion  on  his  part.  Whence 
came  these  sibylline  leaves  ?  At  first  Cecilia 
could  not  divine  ;  but,  ere  long,  her  woman's  in- 
stinct traced  them  to  the  thin  and  nervous  hand  of 
the  poet's  sister.  This  surmise  was  confirmed  by 
her  maid,  who  asked  the  boy  that  brought  them. 
It  was  with  one  of  these  missives  in  her  hand 
that  Cecilia  entered  Mrs.  Archer's  house,  after 
purchasing  the  carrier-pigeon.  Unannounced  she 
entered,  and  walked  up  the  narrow  and  imper- 
fectly lighted  stairs  to  Alice's  bed-room,  —  that 
little  sanctuary  draped  with  white,  —  that  colum- 
barium lined  with  warmth,  and  softness,  and 
silence.  Alice  was  not  there  ;  but  the  chair 
by  the  window,  the  open  volume  of  poems  on 
the  table,  the  note  to  Cecilia  by  its  side,  and 
the  ink  not  yet  dry  in  the  pen,  were  like  the 


A    TALE.  83 

vibration  of  a  bough,  when  the  bird  has  just 
left  it,  — like  the  rising  of  the  grass,  when  the 
foot  has  just  pressed  it.  In  a  moment  she  re- 
turned. She  had  been  down  to  her  mother, 
who  sat  talking,  talking,  talking,  with  an  old 
friend  in  the  parlour  below,  even  as  these  young 
friends  were  talking  together,  in  the  bed-room 
above.  Ah,  how  different  were  their  themes  ! 
Death  and  Love,  —  apples  of  Sodom,  that 
crumble  to  ashes  at  a  touch,  —  golden  fruits  of 
the  Hesperides,  —  golden  fruits  of  Paradise,  fra- 
grant, ambrosial,  perennial ! 

"  I  have  just  been  writing  to  you,"  said  Alice  ; 
"  I  wanted  so  much  to  see  you  this  morning  !  " 

cc  Why  this  morning  in  particular  ?  Has  any 
thing  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  only  I  had  such  a  longing  to  see 
you  !  " 

And,  seating  herself  in  a  low  chair  by  Cecilia's 
side,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the  shoulder  of  her 
friend,  who,  taking  one  of  her  pale,  thin  hands 
in  both  her  own,  silently  kissed  her  forehead 
again  and  again. 

Alice  was  not  aware,  that,  in  the  words  she 
uttered,  there  was  the  slightest  shadow  of  un- 
truth. And  yet  had  nothing  happened  ?  Was 


84  KAVANAGH, 

it  nothing,  that  among  her  thoughts  a  new  thought 
had  risen,  like  a  star,  whose  pale  effulgence, 
mingled  with  the  common  daylight,  was  not 
yet  distinctly  visible  even  to  herself,  but  would 
grow  brighter  as  the  sun  grew  lower,  and  the 
rosy  twilight  darker  ?  Was  it  nothing,  that  a 
new  fountain  of  affection  had  suddenly  sprung 
up  within  her,  which  she  mistook  for  the  fresh- 
ening and  overflowing  of  the  old  fountain  of 
friendship,  that  hitherto  had  kept  the  lowland 
landscape  of  her  life  so  green,  but  now,  being 
flooded  by  more  affection,  was  not  to  cease, 
but  only  to  disappear  in  the  greater  tide,  and 
flow  unseen  beneath  it  ?  Yet  so  it  was  ;  and 
this  stronger  yearning  —  this  unappeasable  de- 
sire for  her  friend  —  was  only  the  tumultuous 
swelling  of  a  heart,  that  as  yet  knows  not  its 
own  secret. 

u  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Cecilia  !  "  she  con- 
tinued. u  You  are  so  beautiful  !  I  love  so 
much  to  sit  and  look  at  you  !  Ah,  how  I  wish 
Heaven  had  made  me  as  tall,  and  strong,  and 
beautiful  as  you  are  !  " 

"  You  little  flatterer  !  What  an  affectionate, 
lover-like  friend  you  are  !  What  have  you  been 
doing  all  the  morning  ?  " 


A    TALE. 


85 


"  Looking  out  of  the  window,  thinking  of  you, 
and  writing  you  this  letter,  to  beg  you  to  come 
and  see  me." 

"  And  I  have  been  buying  a  carrier-pigeon,  to 
fly  between  us,  and  carry  all  our  letters." 

"  That  will  be  delightful." 

<c  He  is  to  be  sent  home  to-day  ;  and  after  he 
gets  accustomed  to  my  room,  I  shall  send  him 
here,  to  get  acquainted  with  yours  ;  —  a  lachimo 
in  my  Imogen's  bed-chamber,  to  spy  out  its 
secrets." 

"  If  he  sees  Cleopatra  in  these  white  curtains, 
and  silver  Cupids  in  these  andirons,  he  will  have 
your  imagination." 

"  He  will  see  the  book  with  the  leaf  turned 
down,  and  you  asleep,  and  tell  me  all  about 
you." 

"  A  carrier-pigeon  !  What  a  charming  idea  ! 
and  how  like  you  to  think  of  it  !  " 

"  But  to-day  I  have  been  obliged  to  bring  my 
own  letters.  I  have  some  more  sibylline  leaves 
from  my  anonymous  correspondent,  in  laud  and 
exaltation  of  her  modest  relative,  who  speaks 
blank  verse  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  I  have 
brought  them  to  read  you  some  extracts,  and  to 
take  your  advice  ;  for,  really  and  seriously,  this 
must  be  stopped.  It  has  grown  too  annoying." 


86  KAVANAGH, 

"  How  much  love  you  have  offered  you  !  " 
said  Alice,  sighing. 

"  Yes,  quite  too  much  of  this  kind.  On  my 
way  here,  I  saw  the  modest  relative,  standing  at 
the  corner  of  the  street,  hanging  his  head  in  this 
way." 

And  she  imitated  the  melancholy  Hiram  Adol- 
phus,  and  the  young  friends  laughed. 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  notice  him  ?  "  resumed 
Alice. 

"  Certainly  not.  But  what  do  you  suppose  he 
'did  ?  As  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  began  to  walk 
backward  down  the  street  only  a  short  distance  in 
front  of  me,  staring  at  me  most  impertinently. 
Of  course,  I  took  no  notice  of  this  strange  con- 
duct. I  felt  myself  blushing  to  the  eyes  with  in- 
dignation, and  yet  could  hardly  suppress  my 
desire  to  laugh." 

u  If  you  had  laughed,  he  would  have  taken  it 
for  an  encouragement  ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  it 
would  have  brought  on  the  catastrophe." 

u  And  that  would  have  ended  the  matter.  I 
half  wish  I  had  laughed." 

"  But  think  of  the  immortal  glory  of  marrying 
a  poet  !  " 

"  And  of  inscribing  on  my  cards,  Mrs.  Hiram 
Adolphus  Hawkins  !  " 


A    TALE.  87 

"  A  few  days  ago,  I  went  to  buy  something  at 
his  shop ;  and,  leaning  over  the  counter,  he  asked 
me  if  I  had  seen  the  sun  set  the  evening  before, 
—  adding,  that  it  was  gorgeous,  and  that  the  grass 
and  trees  were  of  a  beautiful  Paris  green  !  " 

And  again  the  young  friends  gave  way  to  their 
mirth. 

"  One  thing,  dear  Alice,  you  must  consent  to 
do  for  me.  You  must  write  to  Miss  Martha 
Amelia,  the  author  of  all  these  epistles,  and  tell 
her  very  plainly  how  indelicate  her  conduct  is, 
and  how  utterly  useless  all  such  proceedings  will 
prove  in  effecting  her  purpose." 

u  I  will  write  this  very  day.  You  shall  be  no 
longer  persecuted." 

"  And  now  let  me  give  you  a  few  extracts 
from  these  wonderful  epistles." 

So  saying,  Cecilia  drew  forth  a  small  package 
of  three-cornered  billets,  tied  with  a  bit  of  pink 
ribbon.  Taking  one  of  them  at  random,  she  was 
on  the  point  of  beginning,  but  paused,  as  if  her 
attention  had  been  attracted  by  something  out  of 
doors.  The  sound  of  passing  footsteps  was 
heard  on  the  gravel  walk. 

"  There  goes  Mr.  Kavanagh,"  said  she,  in  a 
half-whisper. 


88  KAVANAGH, 

Alice  rose  suddenly  from  her  low  chair  at 
Cecilia's  side,  and  the  young  friends  looked  from 
the  window  to  see  the  clergyman  pass. 

u  How  handsome  he  is  !  "  said  Alice,  invol- 
untarily. 

u  He  is,  indeed." 

At  that  moment  Alice  started  back  from  the 
window.  Kavanagh  had  looked  up  in  passing,  as 
if  his  eye  had  been  drawn  by  some  secret  magnet- 
ism. A  bright  color  flushed  the  cheek  of  Alice  ; 
her  eyes  fell  ;  but  Cecilia  continued  to  look 
steadily  into  the  street.  Kavanagh  passed  on, 
and  in  a  few  moments  was  out  of  sight. 

The  two  friends  stood  silent,  side  by  side. 


A    TALE.  89 


XVIII. 

ARTHUR  KAVANAGH  was  descended  from  an 
ancient  Catholic  family.  His  ancestors  had  pur- 
chased from  the  Baron  Victor  of  St.  Castine  a 
portion  of  his  vast  estates,  lying  upon  that  wild 
and  wonderful  sea-coast  of  Maine,  which,  even 
upon  the  map,  attracts  the  eye  hy  its  singular  and 
picturesque  indentations,  and  fills  the  heart  of  the 
beholder  with  something  of  that  delight  which 
throbbed  in  the  veins  of  Pierre  du  Gast,  when, 
with  a  royal  charter  of  the  land  from  the  Atlantic 
to  the  Pacific,  he  sailed  down  the  coast  in  all  the 
pride  of  one  who  is  to  be  prince  of  such  a  vast 
domain.  Here,  in  the  bosom  of  the  solemn 
forests,  they  continued  the  practice  of  that  faith 
which  had  first  been  planted  there  by  Rasle  and 
St.  Castine  ;  and  the  little  church  where  they 
worshipped  is  still  standing,  though  now  as  closed 


90  KAVANAGH, 

and  silent  as  the  graves  which  surround  it,  and  in 
which  the  dust  of  the  Kavanaghs  lies  buried. 

In  these  solitudes,  in  this  faith,  was  Kavanagh 
born,  and  grew  to  childhood,  a  feeble,  delicate 
boy,  watched  over  by  a  grave  and  taciturn  father, 
and  a  mother  who  looked  upon  him  with  infinite 
tenderness,  as  upon  a  treasure  she  should  not  long 
retain.  She  walked  with  him  by  the  sea-side, 
and  spake  to  him  of  God,  and  the  mysterious 
majesty  of  the  ocean,  with  its  tides  and  tempests. 
She  sat  with  him  on  the  carpet  of  golden  threads 
beneath  the  aromatic  pines,  and,  as  the  perpetual 
melancholy  sound  ran  along  the  rattling  boughs, 
his  soul  seemed  to  rise  and  fall,  with  a  motion  and 
a  whisper  like  those  in  the  branches  over  him. 
She  taught  him  his  letters  from  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  — a  volume  full  of  wondrous  legends,  and 
illustrated  with  engravings  from  pictures  by  the 
old  masters,  which  opened  to  him  at  once  the 
world  of  spirits  and  the  world  of  art ;  and  both 
were  beautiful.  She  explained  to  him  the  pic- 
tures ;  she  read  to  him  the  legends, — the  lives 
of  holy  men  and  women,  full  of  faith  and  good 
works,  —  things  which  ever  afterward  remained 
associated  together  in  his  mind.  Thus  holiness 
of  life,  and  self-renunciation,  and  devotion  to  duty, 


A    TALE.  91 

were  early  impressed  upon  his  soul.  To  his 
quick  imagination,  the  spiritual  world  became 
real ;  the  holy  company  of  the  saints  stood  round 
about  the  solitary  boy  ;  his  guardian  angels  led 
him  by  the  hand  by  day,  and  sat  by  his  pillow  at 
night.  At  times,  even,  he  wished  to  die,  that  he 
might  see  them  and  talk  with  them,  and  return  no 
more  to  his  weak  and  weary  body. 

Of  all  the  legends  of  the  mysterious  book,  that 
which  most  delighted  and  most  deeply  impressed 
him  was  the  legend  of  St.  Christopher.  The  pic- 
ture was  from  a  painting  of  Paolo  Farinato,  rep- 
resenting a  figure  of  gigantic  strength  and  stature, 
leaning  upon  a  staff,  and  bearing  the  infant  Christ 
on  his  bending  shoulders  across  the  rushing 
river.  The  legend  related,  that  St.  Christopher, 
being  of  huge  proportions  and  immense  strength, 
wandered  long  about  the  world  before  his  con- 
version, seeking  for  the  greatest  king,  and  willing 
to  obey  no  other.  After  serving  various  masters, 
whom  he  in  turn  deserted,  because  each  recog- 
nized by  some  word  or  sign  another  greater  than 
himself,  he  heard  by  chance  of  Christ,  the  king 
of  heaven  and  earth,  and  asked  of  a  holy  hermit 
where  he  might  be  found,  and  how  he  might  serve 
him.  The  hermit  told  him  he  must  fast  and 


92  KAVANAGH, 

pray  ;  but  the  giant  replied  that  if  he  fasted  he 
should  lose  his  strength,  and  that  he  did  not  know 
how  to  pray.  Then  the  hermit  told  him  to  take 
up  his  abode  on  the  banks  of  a  dangerous  moun- 
tain torrent,  where  travellers  were  often  drowned 
in  crossing,  and  to  rescue  any  that  might  be  in 
peril.  The  giant  obeyed  ;  and  tearing  up  a  palm- 
tree  by  the  roots  for  a  staff,  he  took  his  station  by 
the  river's  side,  and  saved  many  lives.  And  the 
Lord  looked  down  from  heaven  and  said,  u  Be- 
hold this  strong  man,  who  knows  not  yet  the  way 
to  worship,  but  has  found  the  way  to  serve  me  !  " 
And  one  night  he  heard  the  voice  of  a  child, 
crying  in  the  darkness  and  saying,  "  Christo- 
pher !  come  and  bear  me  over  the  river  !  " 
And  he  went  out,  and  found  the  child  sitting  alone 
on  the  margin  of  the  stream  ;  and  taking  him  upon 
his  shoulders,  he  waded  into  the  water.  Then 
the  wind  began  to  roar,  and  the  waves  to  rise 
higher  and  higher  about  him,  and. his  little  burden, 
which  at  first  had  seemed  so  light,  grew  heavier 
and  heavier  as  he  advanced,  and  bent  his  huge 
shoulders  down,  and  put  his  life  in  peril ;  so  that, 
when  he  reached  the  shore,  he  said,  u  Who  art 
thou,  O  child,  that  hast  weighed  upon  me  with  a 
weight,  as  if  I  had  borne  the  whole  world  upon 


A    TALE. 

my  shoulders  ?  "  And  the  little 
u  Thou  hast  borne  the  whole  world 
shoulders,  and  Him  who  created  it.  I  am  Christ, 
whom  thou  by  thy  deeds  of  charity  wouldst  serve. 
Thou  and  thy  service  are  accepted.  Plant  thy 
staff  in  the  ground,  and  it  shall  blossom  and  bear 
fruit  !  "  With  these  words,  the  child  vanished 
away. 

There  was  something  in  this  beautiful  legend 
that  entirely  captivated  the  heart  of  the  boy, 
and  a  vague  sense  of  its  hidden  meaning  seemed 
at  times  to  seize  him  and  control  him.  Later  in 
life  it  became  more  and  more  evident  to  him,  and 
remained  forever  in  his  mind  as  a  lovely  allegory 
of  active  charity  and  a  willingness  to  serve.  Like 
the  giant's  staff,  it  blossomed  and  bore  fruit. 

But  the  time  at  length  came,  when  his  father 
decreed  that  he  must  be  sent  away  to  school.  It 
was  not  meet  that  his  son  should  be  educated  as  a 
girl.  He  must  go  to  the  Jesuit  college  in  Can- 
ada. Accordingly,  one  bright  Summer  morning, 
he  departed  with  his  father,  on  horseback,  through 
those  majestic  forests  that  stretch  with  almost  un- 
broken shadows  from  the  sea  to  the  St.  Law- 
rence, leaving  behind  him  all  the  endearments  of 
home,  and  a  wound  in  his  mother's  heart  that 


94  KAVANAGH, 

never  ceased  to  ache,  —  a  longing,  unsatisfied 
and  insatiable,  for  her  absent  Arthur,  who  had 
gone  from  her  perhaps  for  ever. 

At  college  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  zeal 
for  study,  by  the  docility,  gentleness,  and  gener- 
osity of  his  nature.  There  he  was  thoroughly 
trained  in  the  classics,  and  in  the  dogmas  of  that 
august  faith,  whose  turrets  gleam  with  such  crys- 
talline light,  and  whose  dungeons  are  so  deep,  and 
dark,  and  terrible.  The  study  of  philosophy  and 
theology  was  congenial  to  his  mind.  Indeed,  he 
often  laid  aside  Homer  for  Parmenides,  and 
turned  from  the  odes  of  Pindar  and  Horace  to  the 
mystic  hymns  of  Cleanthes  and  Synesius. 

The  uniformity  of  college  life  was  broken  only 
by  the  annual  visit  home  in  the  Summer  vacation  ; 
the  joyous  meeting,  the  bitter  parting  ;  the  long 
journey  to  and  fro  through  the  grand,  solitary, 
mysterious  forest.  To  his  mother  these  visits 
were  even  more  precious  than  to  himself;  for 
ever  more  and  more  they  added  to  her  boundless 
affection  the  feeling  of  pride  and  confidence  and 
satisfaction,  —  the  joy  and  beauty  of  a  youth  un- 
spotted from  the  world,  and  glowing  with  the  en- 
thusiasm of  virtue. 

At  length  his  college   days  were  ended.     He 


A    TALE.  95 

returned  home  full  of  youth,  full  of  joy  and  hope  ; 
but  it  was  only  to  receive  the  dying  blessings  of 
his  mother,  who  expired  in  peace,  having  seen  his 
face  once  more.  Then  the  house  became  empty 
to  him.  Solitary  was  the  sea-shore,  solitary  were 
the  woodland  walks.  But  the  spiritual  world 
seemed  nearer  and  more  real.  For  affairs  he  had 
no  aptitude  ;  and  he  betook  himself  again  to  his 
philosophic  and  theological  studies.  He  ponder- 
ed with  fond  enthusiasm  on  the  rapturous  pages 
of  Molinos  and  Madame  Guy  on  ;  and  in  a  spirit 
akin  to  that  which  wrote,  he  read  the  writings  of 
Santa  Theresa,  which  he  found  among  his  moth- 
er's books,  —  the  Meditations,  the  Road  to  Per- 
fection, and  the  Moradas,  or  Castle  of  the 
Soul.  She,  too,  had  lingered  over  those  pages 
with  delight,  and  there  were  many  passages 
marked  by  her  own  hand.  Among  them  was 
this,  which  he  often  repeated  to  himself  in  his 
lonely  walks  :  u  O,  Life,  Life  !  how  canst  thou 
sustain  thyself,  being  absent  from  thy  Life  ?  In 
so  great  a  solitude,  in  what  shalt  thou  employ  thy- 
self ?  What  shalt  thou  do,  since  all  thy  deeds 
are  faulty  and  imperfect  ?  " 

In  such  meditations    passed   many  weeks  and 
months.     But  mingled  with  them,  continually  and 


96  KAVANAGH, 

ever  with  more  distinctness,  arose  in  his  memory 
from  the  days  of  childhood  the  old  tradition  of 
Saint  Christopher,  —  the  beautiful  allegory  of 
humility  and  labor.  He  and  his  service  had  been 
accepted,  though  he  would  not  fast,  and  had  not 
learned  to  pray  !  It  became  more  and  more 
clear  to  him,  that  the  life  of  man  consists  not  in 
seeing  visions,  and  in  dreaming  dreams,  but  in 
active  charity  and  willing  service. 

Moreover,  the  study  of  ecclesiastical  history 
awoke  within  him  many  strange  and  dubious 
thoughts.  The  books  taught  him  more  than  their 
writers  meant  to  teach.  It  was  impossible  to 
read  of  Athanasius  without  reading  also  of  Arian  ; 
it  was  impossible  to  hear  of  Calvin  without  hear- 
ing of  Servetus.  Reason  began  more  energeti- 
cally to  vindicate  itself ;  that  Reason,  which  is  a 
light  in  darkness,  not  that  which  is  u  a  thorn  in 
Revelation's  side."  The  search  after  Truth  and 
Freedom,  both  intellectual  and  spiritual,  became 
a  passion  in  his  soul  ;  and  he  pursued  it  until  he 
had  left  far  behind  him  many  dusky  dogmas, 
many  antique  superstitions,  many  time-honored 
observances,  which  the  lips  of  her  alone,  who 
first  taught  them  to  him  in  his  childhood,  had 
invested  with  solemnity  and  sanctity. 


A    TALE.  97 

By  slow  degrees,  and  not  by  violent  spiritual 
conflicts,  he  became  a  Protestant.  He  had  but 
passed  from  one  chapel  to  another  in  the  same 
vast  cathedral.  He  was  still  beneath  the  same 
ample  roof,  still  heard  the  same  divine  service 
chanted  in  a  different  dialect  of  the  same  universal 
language-  Out  of  his  old  faith  he  brought  with 
him  all  he  had  found  in  it  that  was  holy  and  pure 
and  of  good  report.  Not  its  bigotry,  and  fanati- 
cism, and  intolerance  ;  but  its  zeal,  its  self-devo- 
tion, its  heavenly  aspirations,  its  human  sympa- 
thies, its  endless  deeds  of  charity.  Not  till  after 
his  father's  death,  however,  did  he  become  a 
clergyman.  Then  his  vocation  was  manifest  to 
him.  He  no  longer  hesitated,  but  entered  upon 
its  many  duties  and  responsibilities,  its  many 
trials  and  discouragements,  with  the  zeal  of  Peter 
and  the  gentleness  of  John. 


98  KAVANAGH, 


XIX. 

A  WEEK  later,  and  Kavanagh  was  installed  in 
his  little  room  in  the  church- tower.  A  week 
later,  and  the  carrier-pigeon  was  on  the  wing. 
A  week  later,  and  Martha  Amelia's  anonymous 
epistolary  eulogies  of  her  relative  had  ceased 
for  ever. 

Swiftly  and  silently  the  Summer  advanced, 
and  the  following  announcement  in  the  Fair- 
meadow  Advertiser  proclaimed  the  hot  weather 
and  its  alleviations  :  — 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing  to  the 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  Fairmeadow  and  its 
vicinity,  that  my  Bath  House  is  now  completed, 
and  ready  for  the  reception  of  those  who  are 
disposed  to  regale  themselves  in  a  luxury  peculiar 
to  the  once  polished  Greek  and  noble  Roman. 


A    TALE.  99 

u  To  the  Ladies  I  will  say,  that  Tuesday  of 
each  week  will  be  appropriated  to  their  exclu- 
sive benefit  ;  the  white  flag  will  be  the  signal  ; 
and  I  assure  the  Ladies,  that  due  respect  shall 
be  scrupulously  observed,  and  that  they  shall 
be  guarded  from  each  vagrant  foot  and  each 
licentious  eye. 

EDWARD  DIMPLE." 

Moreover,  the  village  was  enlivened  by  the 
usual  travelling  shows,  —  the  wax-work  figures 
representing  Eliza  Wharton  and  the  Salem 
Tragedy,  to  which  clergymen  and  their  families 
were  u  respectfully  invited,  free  on  presenting 
their  cards  "  ;  a  stuffed  shark,  that  had  eaten 
the  exhibitor's  father  in  Lynn  bay  ;  the  me- 
nagerie, with  its  loud  music  and  its  roars  of  rage  ; 
the  circus,  with  its  tan  and  tinsel,  — its  faded 
columbine  and  melancholy  clown  ;  and,  finally, 
the  standard  drama,  in  which  Elder  Evans,  like 
an  ancient  Spanish  Bululu,  impersonated  all  the 
principal  male  characters,  and  was  particularly 
imposing  in  lago  and  the  Moor,  having  half  his 
face  lamp-blacked,  and  turning  now  the  luminous, 
now  the  eclipsed  side  to  the  audience,  as  the 
exigencies  of  the  dialogue  demanded. 


100  KAVANAGH, 

There  was  also  a  great  Temperance  Jubilee, 
with  a  procession,  in  which  was  conspicuous  a 
large  horse,  whose  shaven  tail  was  adorned  with 
gay  ribbons,  and  whose  rider  bore  a  banner  with 
the  device,  "  Shaved  in  the  Cause  "  !  More- 
over, the  Grand  Junction  Railroad  was  opened 
through  the  town,  running  in  one  direction  to  the 
ciiy,  and  in  the  other  into  unknown  northern 
regions,  stringing  the  white  villages  like  pearls 
upon  its  black  thread.  By  this,  the  town  lost 
much  of  its  rural  quiet  and  seclusion.  The  in- 
habitants became  restless  and  ambitious.  They 
were  in  constant  excitement  and  alarm,  like 
children  in  story-books  hidden  away  somewhere 
by  an  ogre,  who  visits  them  regularly  every 
day  and  night,  and  occasionally  devours  one  of 
them  for  a  meal. 

Nevertheless,  most  of  the  inhabitants  con- 
sidered the  railroad  a  great  advantage  to  the 
village.  Several  ladies  were  heard  to  say  that 
Fairmeadow  had  grown  quite  metropolitan  ;  and 
Mrs.  Wilmerdings,  who  suffered  under  a  chronic 
suspension  of  the  mental  faculties,  had  a  vague 
notion,  probably  connected  with  the  profession 
of  her  son,  that  it  was  soon  to  become  a  sea- 
port. 


A    TALE.  101 

In  the  fields  and  woods,  meanwhile,  there  were 
other  signs  and  signals  of  the  Summer.  The 
darkening  foliage  ;  the  embrowning  grain  ;  the 
golden  dragon-fly  haunting  the  blackberry-bushes  ; 
the  cawing  crows,  that  looked  down  from  the 
mountain  on  the  corn-field,  and  waited  day  after 
day  for  the  scarecrow  to  finish  his  work  and 
depart  ;  and  the  smoke  of  far-off  burning  woods, 
that  pervaded  the  air  and  hung  in  purple  haze 
about  the  summits  of  the  mountains,  — these  were 
the  avant-couriers  and  attendants  of  the  hot 
August. 

Kavanagh  had  now  completed  the  first  great 
cycle  of  parochial  visits.  He  had  seen  the 
Vaughans,  the  Archers,  the  Churchills,  and  also 
the  Hawkinses  and  the  Wilmerdingses,  and  many 
more.  With  Mr.  Churchill  he  had  become 
intimate.  They  had  many  points  of  contact 
and  sympathy.  They  walked  together  on  leisure 
afternoons  ;  they  sat  together  through  long  Sum- 
mer evenings  ;  they  discoursed  with  friendly 
zeal  on  various  topics  of  literature,  religion, 
and  morals. 

Moreover,  he  worked  assiduously  at  his  ser- 
mons. He  preached  the  doctrines  of  Christ. 
He  preached  holiness,  self-denial,  love  ;  and  his 


102  KAVANAGH, 

hearers  remarked  that  he  almost  invariably  took 
his  texts  from  the  Evangelists,  as  much  as 
possible  from  the  words  of  Christ,  and  seldom 
from  Paul,  or  the  Old  Testament.  He  did  not 
so  much  denounce  vice,  as  inculcate  virtue  ; 
he  did  not  deny,  but  affirm  ;  he  did  not  lacerate 
the  hearts  of  his  hearers  with  doubt  and  dis- 
belief, but  consoled,  and  comforted,  and  healed 
them  with  faith. 

The  only  danger  was  that  he  might  advance 
too  far,  and  leave  his  congregation  behind  him  ; 
as  a  piping  shepherd,  who,  charmed  with  his 
own  music,  walks  over  the  flowery  mead,  not 
perceiving  that  his  tardy  flock  is  lingering  far 
behind,  more  intent  upon  cropping  the  thymy 
food  around  them,  than  upon  listening  to  the 
celestial  harmonies  that  are  gradually  dying  away 
in  the  distance. 

His  words  were  always  kindly  ;  he  brought 
no  railing  accusation  against  any  man  ;  he  dealt 
in  no  exaggerations  nor  over-statements.  But 
while  he  was  gentle,  he  was  firm.  He  did  not 
refrain  from  reprobating  intemperance  because 
one  of  his  deacons  owned  a  distillery  ;  nor  war, 
because  another  had  a  contract  for  supplying  the 
army  with  muskets  ;  nor  slavery,  because  one 


A    TALE.  103 

of  the  great  men  of  the  village  slammed  his 
pew-door,  and  left  the  church  with  a  grand  air, 
as  much  as  to  say,  that  all  that  sort  of  thing 
would  not  do,  and  the  clergy  had  better  confine 
itself  to  abusing  the  sins  of  the  Hindoos,  and 
let  our  domestic  institutions  alone. 

In  affairs  ecclesiastical  he  had  not  suggested 
many  changes.  One  that  he  had  much  at  heart 
was,  that  the  partition  wall  between  parish  and 
church  should  be  quietly  taken  down,  so  that  all 
should  sit  together  at  the  Supper  of  the  Lord. 
He  also  desired  that  the  organist  should  relinquish 
the  old  and  pernicious  habit  of  preluding  with 
triumphal  marches,  and  running  his  fingers  at 
random  over  the  keys  of  his  instrument,  playing 
scraps  of  secular  music  very  slowly  to  make 
them  sacred,  and  substitute  instead  some  of  the 
beautiful  symphonies  of  Pergolesi,  Palestrina,  and 
Sebastian  Bach. 

He  held  that  sacred  melodies  were  becoming 
to  sacred  themes  ;  and  did  not  wish,  that,  in  his 
church,  as  in  some  of  the  French  Canadian 
churches,  the  holy  profession  of  religion  should 
be  sung  to  the  air  of  "  When  one  is  dead  't  is  for 
a  long  time," — the  commandments,  aspirations  for 
heaven,  and  the  necessity  of  thinking  of  one's  sal- 


104  KAVANAGH, 

vation,  to  "  The  Follies  of  Spain,"  "  Louisa  was 
sleeping  in  a  grove,"  or  a  grand  "  March  of  the 
French  Cavalry." 

The  study  in  the  tower  was  delightful.  There 
sat  the  young  apostle,  and  meditated  the  great 
design  and.  purpose  of  his  life,  the  removal  of  all 
prejudice,  and  uncharitableness,  and  persecution, 
and  the  union  of  all  sects  into  one  church  univer- 
sal. Sects  themselves  he  would  not  destroy, 
but  sectarianism  ;  for  sects  were  to  him  only  as 
separate  converging  roads,  leading  all  to  the 
same  celestial  city  of  peace.  As  he  sat  alone, 
and  thought  of  these  things,  he  heard  the  great 
bell  boom  above  him,  and  remembered  the 
ages  when  in  all  Christendom  there  was  but  one 
Church  ;  when  bells  were  anointed,  baptized,  and 
prayed  for,  that,  wheresoever  those  holy  bells 
should  sound,  all  deceits  of  Satan,  all  danger  of 
whirlwinds,  thunders,  lightnings,  and  tempests, 
might  be  driven  away,  —  that  devotion  might  in- 
crease in  every  Christian  when  he  heard  them,  — 
and  that  the  Lord  would  sanctify  them  with  his 
Holy  Spirit,  and  infuse  into  them  the  heavenly 
dew  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  He  thought  of  the  great 
bell  Guthlac,  which  an  abbot  of  Croyland  gave  to 
his  monastery,  and  of  the  six  others  given  by  his 


A    TALE.  105 

successor,  —  so  musical,  that,  when  they  all  rang 
together,  as  Ingulphus  affirms,  there  was  no  ringing 
in  England  equal  to  it.  As  he  listened,  the  bell 
seemed  to  breathe  upon  the  air  such  clangorous 
sentences  as, 

"Laudo  Deum  venim,  plebem  voco,  congrego  clerum, 
Defunctos  ploro,  nimbum  fugo,  festaque  honoro." 

Possibly,  also,  at  times,  it  interrupted  his  studies 
and  meditations  with  other  words  than  these. 
Possibly  it  sang  into  his  ears,  as  did  the  bells 
of  Varennes  into  the  ears  of  Panurge,  —  u  Marry 
thee,  marry  thee,  marry,  marry  ;  if  thou  shouldst 
marry,  marry,  marry,  thou  shalt  find  good  therein, 
therein,  therein,  so  marry,  marry." 

From  this  tower  of  contemplation  he  looked 
down  with  mingled  emotions  of  joy  and  sorrow  on 
the  toiling  world  below.  The  wide  prospect 
seemed  to  enlarge  his  sympathies  and  his  char- 
ities ;  and  he  often  thought  of  the  words  of  Plato  : 
u  When  we  consider  human  life,  we  should  view 
as  from  a  high  tower  all  things  terrestrial ;  such 
as  herds,  armies,  men  employed  in  agriculture,  in 
marriages,  divorces,  births,  deaths  ;  the  tumults 
of  courts  of  justice  ;  desolate  lands  ;  various 
barbarous  nations  ;  feasts,  wailings,  markets  ;  a 


106  KAVANAGH, 

medley  of  all  things,  in  a  system  adorned  by  con- 
trarieties." 

On  the  outside  of  the  door  Kavanagh  had 
written  the  vigorous  line  of  Dante, 

"  Think  that  To-day  shall  never  dawn  again ! " 

that  it  might  always  serve  as  a  salutation  and 
memento  to  him  as  he  entered.  On  the  inside, 
the  no  less  striking  lines  of  a  more  modern 
bard, — 

"  Lose  this  day  loitering,  't  will  be  the  same  story 
To-morrow,  and  the  next  more  dilatory. 
The  indecision  brings  its  own  delays, 
And  days  are  lost,  lamenting  o'er  lost  days. 
Are  you  in  earnest  ?     Seize  this  very  minute  ! 
What  you  can  do  or  think  you  can,  begin  it ! 
Boldness  has  genius,  power,  and  magic  in  it ! 
Only  engage,  and  then  the  mind  grows  heated : 
Begin  it,  and  the  work  will  be  completed." 

Once,  as  he  sat  in  this  retreat  near  noon,  enjoy- 
ing the  silence,  and  the  fresh  air  that  visited  him 
through  the  oval  windows,  his  attention  was  arrest- 
ed by  a  cloud  of  dust,  rolling  along  the  road,  out 
of  which  soon  emerged  a  white  horse,  and  then 
a  very  singular,  round-shouldered,  old-fashioned 
chaise,  containing  an  elderly  couple,  both  in 


A    TALE.  107 

black.  What  particularly  struck  him  was  the 
gait  of  the  horse,  who  had  a  very  disdainful 
fling  to  his  hind  legs.  The  slow  equipage  passed, 
and  would  have  been  for  ever  forgotten,  had  not 
Kavanagh  seen  it  again  at  sunset,  stationary  at 
Mr.  Churchill's  door,  towards  which  he  was 
directing  his  steps. 

As  he  entered,  he  met  Mr.  Churchill,  just 
taking  leave  of  an  elderly  lady  and  gentleman  in 
black,  whom  he  recognized  as  the  travellers  in  the 
old  chaise.  Mr.  Churchill  looked  a  little  flushed 
and  disturbed,  and  bade  his  guests  farewell  with 
a  constrained  air.  On  seeing  Kavanagh,  he 
saluted  him,  and  called  him  by  name  ;  whereupon 
the  lady  pursed  up  her  mouth,  and,  after  a  quick 
glance,  turned  away  her  face  ;  and  the  gentle- 
man passed  with  a  lofty  look,  in  which  curiosity, 
reproof,  and  pious  indignation  were  strangely 
mingled.  They  got  into  the  chaise,  with  some 
such  feelings  as  Noah  and  his  wife  may  be  sup- 
posed to  have  had  on  entering  the  ark ;  the 
whip  descended  upon  the  old  horse  with  unusual 
vigor,  accompanied  by  a  jerk  of  the  reins  that 
caused  him  to  say  within  himself,  "  What  is  the 
matter  now  ?  "  He  then  moved  off  at  his  usual 
pace,  and  with  that  peculiar  motion  of  the  hind 


108  KAVANAGH, 

legs  which  Kavanagh  had  perceived  in  the 
morning. 

Kavanagh  found  his  friend  not  a  little  disturbed, 
and  evidently  by  the  conversation  of  the  departed 
guests. 

44  That  old  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Churchill, 
"is  your  predecessor,  Mr.  Pendexter.  He 
thinks  we  are  in  a  bad  way  since  he  left  us.  He 
considers  your  liberality  as  nothing  better  than 
rank  Arianism  and  infidelity.  The  fact  is,  the 
old  gentleman  is  a  little  soured  ;  the  vinous  fer- 
mentation in  his  veins  is  now  over,  and  the 
acetous  has  commenced." 

Kavanagh  smiled,  but  made  no  answer. 

44 1,  of  course,  defended  you  stoutly,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Churchill  ;  "  but  if  he  goes  about  the 
village  sowing  such  seed,  there  will  be  tares 
growing  with  the  wheat." 

44 1  have  no  fears,"  said  Kavanagh,  very 
quietly. 

Mr.  Churchill's  apprehensions  were  not,  how- 
ever, groundless ;  for  in  the  course  of  the  week  it 
came  out  that  doubts,  surmises,  and  suspicions  of 
Kavanagh's  orthodoxy  were  springing  up  in  many 
weak  but  worthy  minds.  And  it  was  ever  after 
observed,  that,  whenever  that  fatal,  apocalyptic 


A    TALE.  109 

white  horse  and  antediluvian  chaise  appeared 
in  town,  many  parishioners  were  harassed  with 
doubts  and  perplexed  with  theological  difficulties 
and  uncertainties. 

Nevertheless,  the  main  current  of  opinion  was 
with  him  ;  and  the  parish  showed  their  grateful 
acknowledgment  of  his  zeal  and  sympathy,  by 
requesting  him  to  sit  for  his  portrait  to  a  great 
artist  from  the  city,  who  was  passing  the  Summer 
months  in  the  village  for  recreation,  using  his 
pencil  only  on  rarest  occasions  and  as  a  particular 
favor.  To  this  martyrdom  the  meek  Kavanagh 
submitted  without  a  murmur.  During  the  prog- 
ress of  this  work  of  art,  he  was  seldom  left 
alone  ;  some  one  of  his  parishioners  was  there  to 
enliven  him  ;  and  most  frequently  it  was  Miss 
Martha  Amelia  Hawkins,  who  had  become  very 
devout  of  late,  being  zealous  in  the  Sunday 
School,  and  requesting  her  relative  not  to  walk 
between  churches  any  more.  She  took  a  very 
lively  interest  in  the  portrait,  and  favored  with 
many  suggestions  the  distinguished  artist,  who 
found  it  difficult  to  obtain  an  expression  which 
would  satisfy  the  parish,  some  wishing  to  have  it 
grave,  if  not  severe,  and  others  with  "  Mr.  Kava- 
nagh's  peculiar  smile."  Kavanagh  himself  was 


110  KAVANAGH, 

quite  indifferent  about  the  matter,  and  met  his 
fate  with  Christian  fortitude,  in  a  white  cravat  and 
sacerdotal  robes,  with  one  hand  hanging  down 
from  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  the  other  holding 
a  large  book  with  the  fore-finger  between  its 
leaves,  reminding  Mr.  Churchill  of  Milo  with  his 
fingers  in  the  oak.  The  expression  of  the  face 
was  exceedingly  bland  and  resigned ;  perhaps  a 
little  wanting  in  strength,  but  on  the  whole  satis- 
factory to  the  parish.  So  was  the  artist's  price  ; 
nay,  it  was  even  held  by  some  persons  to  be 
cheap,  considering  the  quantity  of  back-ground  he 
had  put  in. 


A    TALE.  Ill 


XX. 

MEANWHILE,  things  had  gone  on  very  quietly 
and  monotonously  in  Mr.  Churchill's  family. 
Only  one  event,  and  that  a  mysterious  one,  had 
disturbed  its  serenity.  It  was  the  sudden  disap- 
pearance of  Lucy,  the  pretty  orphan  girl  ;  and  as 
the  booted  centipede,  who  had  so  much  excited 
Mr.  Churchill's  curiosity,  disappeared  at  the  same 
time,  there  was  little  doubt  that  they  had  gone 
away  together.  But  whither  gone,  and  where- 
fore, remained  a  mystery. 

Mr.  Churchill,  also,  had  had  his  profile,  and 
those  of  his  wife  and  children,  taken,  in  a  very 
humble  style,  by  Mr.  Bantam,  whose  advertise- 
ment he  had  noticed  on  his  way  to  school  nearly 
a  year  before.  His  own  was  considered  the  best, 
as  a  work  of  art.  The  face  was  cut  out  entire- 
ly ;  the  collar  of  the  coat  velvet ;  the  shirt-collar 


112  KAVANAGH, 

very  high  and  white  ;  and  the  top  of  his  head 
ornamented  with  a  crest  of  hair  turning  up  in 
front,  though  his  own  turned  down,  —  which 
slight  deviation  from  nature  was  explained  and 
justified  by  the  painter  as  a  license  allowable 
in  art. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  sitting  down  to 
begin  for  at  least  the  hundredth  time  the  great 
Romance,  —  subject  of  so  many  resolves  and  so 
much  remorse,  so  often  determined  upon  but 
never  begun,  —  a  loud  knock  at  the  street-door, 
which  stood  wide  open,  announced  a  visitor. 
Unluckily,  the  study-door  was  likewise  open  ; 
and  consequently,  being  in  full  view,  he  found 
it  impossible  to  refuse  himself;  nor,  in  fact, 
would  he  have  done  so,  had  all  the  doors 
been  shut  and  bolted, — the  art  of  refusing 
one's  self  being  at  that  time  but  imperfectly 
understood  in  Fairmeadow.  Accordingly,  the 
visitor  was  shown  in. 

He  announced  himself  as  Mr.  Hathaway. 
Passing  through  the  village,  he  could  not  deny 
himself  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  Mr.  Churchill, 
whom  he  knew  by  his  writings  in  the  periodicals, 
though  not  personally.  He  wished,  moreover,  to 
secure  the  cooperation  of  one  already  so  favora- 


A    TALE.  113 

bly  blown  to  the  literary  world,  in  a  new  Maga- 
zine he  was  about  to  establish,  in  order  to  raise 
the  character  of  American  literature,  which,  in 
his  opinion,  the  existing  reviews  and  magazines 
had  entirely  failed  to  accomplish.  A  daily  in- 
creasing want  of  something  better  was  felt  by  the 
public  ;  and  the  time  had  come  for  the  establish- 
ment of  such  a  periodical  as  he  proposed.  After 
explaining  in  rather  a  florid  and  exuberant  manner 
his  plan  and  prospects,  he  entered  more  at  large 
into  the  subject  of  American  literature,  which  it 
was  his  design  to  foster  and  patronize. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  he,  "  that  we 
want  a  national  literature  commensurate  with 
our  mountains  and  rivers,  —  commensurate  with 
Niagara,  and  the  Alleghanies,  and  the  Great 
Lakes  !  " 

"  Oh  ! » 

"  We  want  a  national  epic  that  shall  corre- 
spond to  the  size  of  the  country  ;  that  shall  be 
to  all  other  epics  what  Banvard's  Panorama  of 
the  Mississippi  is  to  all  other  paintings, — the 
largest  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Ah  !  » 

"  We  want  a  national  drama  in  which  scope 
enough  shall  be  given  to  our  gigantic  ideas,  and 
8 


114  KAVANAGH, 

to  the  unparalleled  activity  and  progress  of  our 
people  !  " 

"  Of  course." 

u  In  a  word,  we  want  a  national  literature 
altogether  shaggy  and  unshorn,  that  shall  shake 
the  earth,  like  a  herd  of  buffaloes  thundering 
over  the  prairies  !  " 

"  Precisely,"  interrupted  Mr.  Churchill ;  "  but 
excuse  me  !  —  are  you  not  confounding  things 
that  have  no  analogy  ?  Great  has  a  very  differ- 
ent meaning  when  applied  to  a  river,  and  when 
applied  to  a  literature.  Large  and  shallow  may 
perhaps  be  applied  to  both.  Literature  is  rather 
an  image  of  the  spiritual  world,  than  of  the  physi- 
cal, is  it  not  ?  —  of  the  internal,  rather  than  the 
external.  Mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers  are,  after 
all,  only  its  scenery  and  decorations,  not  its  sub- 
stance and  essence.  A  man  will  not  necessarily 
be  a  great  poet  because  he  lives  near  a  great 
mountain.  Nor,  being  a  poet,  will  he  necessarily 
write  better  poems  than  another,  because  he  lives 
nearer  Niagara." 

"  But,  Mr.  Churchill,  you  do  not  certainly 
mean  to  deny  the  influence  of  scenery  on  the 
mind  ?  " 

"  No,  only  to  deny  that  it  can  create  genius. 


A    TALE.  115 

At  best,  it  can  only  develop  it.  Switzerland  has 
produced  no  extraordinary  poet  ;  nor,  as  far  as 
I  know,  have  the  Andes,  or  the  Himalaya  moun- 
tains, or  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  in  Africa." 

"  But,  at  all  events,"  urged  Mr.  Hathaway, 
"  let  us  have  our  literature  national.  If  it  is  not 
national,  it  is  nothing." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  a  great  deal. 
Nationality  is  a  good  thing  to  a  certain  extent,  but 
universality  is  better.  All  that  is  best  in  the  great 
poets  of  all  countries  is  not  what  is  national  in 
them,  but  what  is  universal.  Their  roots  are  in 
their  native  soil ;  but  their  branches  wave  in  the 
unpatriotic  air,  that  speaks  the  same  language  unto 
all  men,  and  their  leaves  shine  with  the  illimitable 
light  that  pervades  all  lands.  Let  us  throw  all 
the  windows  open  ;  let  us  admit  the  light  and  air 
on  all  sides  ;  that  we  may  look  towards  the  four 
corners  of  the  heavens,  and  not  always  in  the 
same  direction." 

"  But  you  admit  nationality  to  be  a  good 
thing  ?  " 

u  Yes,  if  not  carried  too  far  ;  still,  I  confess,  it 
rather  limits  one's  views  of  truth.  I  prefer  what 
is  natural.  Mere  nationality  is  often  ridiculous. 
Every  one  smiles  when  he  hears  the  Icelandic 


116  KAVANAGH, 

proverb,  c  Iceland  is  the  best  land  the  sun  shines 
upon.'  Let  us  be  natural,  and  we  shall  be  nation- 
al enough.  Besides,  our  literature  can  be  strictly 
national  only  so  far  as  our  character  and  modes 
of  thought  differ  from  those  of  other  nations. 
Now,  as  we  are  very  like  the  English,  —  are,  in 
fact,  English  under  a  different  sky, —  I  do  not  see 
how  our  literature  can  be  very  different  from 
theirs.  Westward  from  hand  to  hand  we  pass 
the  lighted  torch,  but  it  was  lighted  at  the  old 
domestic  fireside  of  England." 

"  Then  you  think  our  literature  is  never  to  be 
any  thing  but  an  imitation  of  the  English  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  not  an  imitation,  but,  as 
some  one  has  said,  a  continuation." 

u  It  seems  to  me  that  you  take  a  very  narrow 
view  of  the  subject." 

"  On  the  contrary,  a  very  broad  one.  No 
literature  is  complete  until  the  language  in  which 
it  is  written  is  dead.  We  rnay  well  be  proud  of 
our  task  and  of  our  position.  Let  us  see  if  we 
can  build  in  any  way  worthy  of  our  forefathers." 

"  But  I  insist  upon  originality." 

"Yes;  but  without  spasms  and  convulsions. 
Authors  must  not,  like  Chinese  soldiers,  expect 
to  win  victories  by  turning  somersets  in  the  air." 


A    TALE.  117 

u  Well,  really,  the  prospect  from  your  point 
of  view  is  not  very  brilliant.  Pray,  what  do  you 
think  of  our  national  literature  ?  " 

u  Simply,  that  a  national  literature  is  not  the 
growth  of  a  day.  Centuries  must  contribute  their 
dew  and  sunshine  to  it.  Our  own  is  growing 
slowly  but  surely,  striking  its  roots  downward, 
and  its  branches  upward,  as  is  natural ;  and  I  do 
not  wish,  for  the  sake  of  what  some  people  call 
originality,  to  invert  it,  and  try  to  make  it  grow 
with  its  roots  in  the  air.  And  as  for  having  it  so 
savage  and  wild  as  you  want  it,  I  have  only  to 
say,  that  all  literature,  as  well  as  all  art,  is  the 
result  of  culture  and  intellectual  refinement." 

u  Ah !  we  do  not  want  art  and  refinement ;  we 
want  genius,  —  untutored,  wild,  original,  free." 

"  But,  if  this  genius  is  to  find  any  expression, 
it  must  employ  art  ;  for  art  is  the  external  ex- 
pression of  our  thoughts.  Many  have  genius,  but, 
wanting  art,  are  for  ever  dumb.  The  two  must 
go  together  to  form  the  great  poet,  painter,  or 
sculptor."  , 

4t  In  that  sense,  very  well." 

"  I  was  about  to  say  also  that  I  thought  our 
literature  would  finally  not  be  wanting  in  a  kind 
of  universality. 


118  KAVANAGH, 

u  As  the  blood  of  all  nations  is  mingling  with 
our  own,  so  will  their  thoughts  and  feelings 
finally  mingle  in  our  literature.  We  shall  draw 
from  the  Germans  tenderness  ;  from  the  Span- 
iards, passion  ;  from  the  French,  vivacity,  to 
mingle  more  and  more  with  our  English  solid 
sense.  And  this  will  give  us  universality,  so 
much  to  be  desired." 

"  If  that  is  your  way  of  thinking,"  interrupted 
the  visitor,  "you  will  like  the  work  I  am  now 
engaged  upon." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  A  great  national  drama,  the  scene  of  which 
is  laid  in  New  Mexico.  It  is  entitled  Don 
Serafin,  or  the  Marquis  of  the  Seven  Churches. 
The  principal  characters  are  Don  Serafin,  an 
old  Spanish  hidalgo  ;  his  daughter  Deseada  ;  and 
Fra  Serapion,  the  Curate.  The  play  opens 
with  Fra  Serapion  at  breakfast  ;  on  the  table  a 
game-cock,  tied  by  the  leg,  sharing  his  master's 
meal.  Then  follows  a  scene  at  the  cock-pit, 
where  the  Marquis  stakes  the  remnant  of  his 
fortune  —  his  herds  and  hacienda  —  on  a  favorite 
cock,  and  loses." 

"  But  what  do  you  know  about  cock-fighting  ?  " 


A    TALE.  119 

demanded,  rather  than  asked,  the  astonished  and 
half-laughing  school-master. 

"  I  am  not  very  well  informed  on  that  subject, 
and  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  could  not 
recommend  some  work." 

"  The  only  work  I  am  acquainted  with,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Churchill,  "  is  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Pegge's  Essay  on  Cock-fighting  among  the  An- 
cients ;  and  I  hardly  see  how  you  could  apply 
that  to  the  Mexicans." 

"  Why,  they  are  a  kind  of  ancients,  you 
know.  I  certainly  will  hunt  up  the  essay  you 
mention,  and  see  what  I  can  do  with  it." 

"  And  all  I  know  about  the  matter  itself," 
continued  Mr.  Churchill,  "  is,  that  Mark  An- 
tony was  a  patron  of  the  pit,  and  that  his  cocks 
were  always  beaten  by  Caesar's  ;  and  that,  when 
Themistocles  the  Athenian  general  was  march- 
ing against  the  Persians,  he  halted  his  army  to 
see  a  cock-fight,  and  made  a  speech  to  his  sol- 
diery, to  the  effect,  that  those  animals  fought  not 
for  the  gods  of  their  country,  nor  for  the  mon- 
uments of  their  ancestors,  nor  for  glory,  nor  for 
freedom,  nor  for  their  children,  but  only  for 
the  sake  of  victory.  On  his  return  to  Athens, 


120  KAVANAGH, 

he  established  cock-fights  in  that  capital.  But 
how  this  is  to  help  you  in  Mexico  I  do  not 
see,  unless  you  introduce  Santa  Anna,  and 
compare  him  to  Caesar  and  Themistocles." 

u  That  is  it ;  I  will  do  so.  It  will  give 
historic  interest  to  the  play.  I  thank  you  for 
the  suggestion." 

"  The  subject  is  certainly  very  original ;  but 
it  does  not  strike  me  as  particularly  national." 

"  Prospective,  you  see  !  "  said  Mr.  Hatha- 
way, with  a  penetrating  look. 

u  Ah,  yes  ;  I  perceive  you  fish  with  a  heavy 
sinker,  — down,  far  down  in  the  future,  —  among 
posterity,  as  it  were." 

"  You  have  seized  the  idea.  Besides,  I  obvi- 
ate your  objection,  by  introducing  an  American 
circus  company  from  the  United  States,  which 
enables  me  to  bring  horses  on  the  stage  and 
produce  great  scenic  effect." 

"  That  is  a  bold  design.  The  critics  will 
be  out  upon  you  without  fail." 

"  Never  fear  that.  I  know  the  critics  root 
and  branch,  —  out  and  out,  —  have  summered 
them  and  wintered  them,  —  in  fact,  am  one  of 
them  myself.  Very  good  fellows  are  the  critics  ; 
are  they  not  ?  " 


A    TALE. 

"  O,  yes  ;    only   they   have    suclT 
way  of  talking  down  upon  authors." 

"  If  they  did  not  talk  down  upon  them,  they 
would  show  no  superiority  ;  and,  of  course,  that 
would  never  do." 

"  Nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  that  authors 
are  sometimes  a  little  irritable.  I  often  recall 
the  poet  in  the  Spanish  fable,  whose  manu- 
scripts were  devoured  by  mice,  till  at  length 
he  put  some  corrosive  sublimate  into  his  ink, 
and  was  never  troubled  again." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  it  yourself?"  said  Mr. 
Hathaway,  rather  sharply. 

u  O,"  answered  Mr.  Churchill,  with  a  smile 
of  humility,  u  I  and  my  writings  are  too  in- 
significant. They  may  gnaw  and  welcome.  I 
do  not  like  to  have  poison  about,  even  for  such 
purposes." 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  the  visitor, 
adroitly  changing  the  subject,  "  do  you  know 
Honeywell  ?  " 

"No,  I  do  not.     Who  is  he?" 

"  Honeywell  the  poet,   I  mean." 

"  No,  I  never  even  heard  of  him.  There 
are  so  many  poets  now-a-days  !  " 

"  That  is  very  strange  indeed  !     Why,  I  con- 


122  KAVANAGH, 

sider  Honeywell  one  of  the  finest  writers  in 
the  country,  —  quite  in  the  front  rank  of  Ameri- 
can authors.  He  is  a  real  poet,  and  no  mistake. 
Nature  made  him  with  her  shirt-sleeves  rolled 
up." 

"  What  has  he  published  ?  " 

u  He  has  not  published  any  thing  yet,  except 
in  the  newspapers.  But,  this  Autumn,  he  is 
going  to  bring  out  a  volume  of  poems.  I  could 
not  help  having  my  joke  with  him  about  it.  T 
told  him  he  had  better  print  it  on  cartridge- 
paper." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

u  Why,  to  make  it  go  off  better;  don't  you 
understand  ?" 

"  O,  yes  ;  now  that  you  explain  it.  Very 
good." 

"  Honeywell  is  going  to  write  for  the  Maga- 
zine ;  he  is  to  furnish  a  poem  for  every  number  ; 
and  as  he  succeeds  equally  well  in  the  plaintive 
and  didactic  style  of  Wordsworth,  and  the  more 
vehement  and  impassioned  style  of  Byron,  I 
think  we  shall  do  very  well." 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  call  the  new 
Magazine  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Churchill. 

"  We  think  of  calling  it  The  Niagara." 


A    TALE.  123 

"  Why,  that  is  the  name  of  our  fire-engine  ! 
Why  not  call  it  The  Extinguisher?" 

"  That  is  also  a  good  name  ;  but  I  prefer 
The  Niagara,  as  more  national.  And  I  hope, 
Mr.  Churchill,  you  will  let  us  count  upon  you. 
We  should  like  to  have  an  article  from  your 
pen  for  every  number." 

u  Do  you  mean  to  pay  your    contributors  ?  " 

"  Not  the  first  year,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  But 
after  that,  if  the  work  succeeds,  we  shall  pay 
handsomely.  And,  of  course,  it  will  succeed, 
for  we  mean  it  shall  ;  and  we  never  say  fail. 
There  is  no  such  word  in  our  dictionary.  Be- 
fore the  year  is  out,  we  mean  to  print  fifty 
thousand  copies  ;  and  fifty  thousand  copies  will 
give  us,  at  least,  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
readers  ;  and,  with  such  an  audience,  any  author 
might  be  satisfied." 

He  had  touched  at  length  the  right  strings  in 
Mr.  ChurchilPs  bosom ;  and  they  vibrated  to 
the  touch  with  pleasant  harmonies.  Literary 
vanity  !  —  literary  ambition  !  The  editor  per- 
ceived it ;  and  so  cunningly  did  he  play  upon 
these  chords,  that,  before  he  departed,  Mr. 
Churchill  had  promised  to  write  for  him  a  series 
of  papers  on  Obscure  Martyrs,  —  a  kind  of 


124  KAVANAGH, 

tragic  history  of  the  unrecorded  and  life-long 
sufferings  of  women,  which  hitherto  had  found 
no  historian,  save  now  and  then  a  novelist. 

Notwithstanding  the  certainty  of  success,  — 
notwithstanding  the  fifty  thousand  subscribers  and 
the  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  readers,  — 
the  Magazine  never  went  into  operation.  Still 
the  dream  was  enough  to  occupy  Mr.  Churchill's 
thoughts,  and  to  withdraw  them  entirely  from  his 
Romance  for  many  weeks  together. 


A    TALE.  125 


XXI. 

EVERY  state,  and  almost  every  county,  of 
New  England,  has  its  Roaring  Brook,  —  a  moun- 
tain streamlet,  overhung  by  woods,  impeded  by 
a  mill,  encumbered  by  fallen  trees,  but  ever 
racing,  rushing,  roaring  dowrn  through  gurgling 
gullies,  and  filling  the  forest  with  its  delicious 
sound  and  freshness  ;  the  drinking-place  of  home- 
returning  herds  ;  the  mysterious  haunt  of  squir- 
rels and  blue-jays  ;  the  sylvan  retreat  of  school- 
girls, who  frequent  it  on  Summer  holidays,  and 
mingle  their  restless  thoughts,  their  overflowing 
fancies,  their  fair  imaginings,  with  its  restless, 
exuberant,  and  rejoicing  stream. 

Fairmeadow  had  no  Roaring  Brook.  As  its 
name  indicates,  it  was  too  level  a  land  for  that. 
But  the  neighbouring  town  of  Westwood,  lying 
more  inland,  and  among  the  hills,  had  one  of  the 


126  KAVANAGH, 

fairest  and  fullest  of  all  the  brooks  that  roar. 
It  was  the  boast  of  the  neighbourhood.  Not 
to  have  seen  it,  was  to  have  seen  no  brook, 
no  waterfall,  no  mountain  ravine.  And,  conse- 
quently, to  behold  it  and  admire,  was  Kavanagh 
taken  by  Mr.  Churchill  as  soon  as  the  Summer 
vacation  gave  leisure  and  opportunity.  The 
party  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Churchill,  and 
Alfred,  in  a  one-horse  chaise  ;  and  Cecilia, 
Alice,  and  Kavanagh,  in  a  carryall,  —  the  fourth 
seat  in  which  was  occupied  by  a  large  basket, 
containing  what  the  Squire  of  the  Grove,  in  Don 
Quixote,  called  his  "fiambreras," —  that  mag- 
niloquent Castilian  word  for  cold  collation.  Over 
warm  uplands,  smelling  of  clover  and  mint  ; 
through  cool  glades,  still  wet  with  the  rain  of 
yesterday  ;  along  the  river  ;  across  the  rattling 
and  tilting  planks  of  wooden  bridges  ;  by  or- 
chards ;  by  the  gates  of  fields,  wTith  the  tall 
mullen  growing  at  the  bars  ;  by  stone  walls  over- 
run with  privet  and  barberries  ;  in  sun  and  heat, 
in  shadow  and  coolness,  —  forward  drove  the 
happy  party  on  that  pleasant  Summer  morning. 
At  length  they  reached  the  Roaring  Brook. 
From  a  gorge  in  the  mountains,  through  a  long, 
winding  gallery  of  birch,  and  beech,  and  pine, 


A    TALE.  127 

leaped  the  bright,  brown  waters  of  the  jubilant 
streamlet ;  out  of  the  woods,  across  the  plain, 
under  the  rude  bridge  of  logs,  into  the  woods 
again, —  a  day  between  two  nights.  With  it 
went  a  song  that  made  the  heart  sing  likewise  ; 
a  song  of  joy,  and  exultation,  and  freedom  ;  a 
continuous  and  unbroken  song  of  life,  and  pleas- 
ure, and  perpetual  youth.  Like  the  old  Ice- 
landic Scald,  the  streamlet  seemed  to  say, — 

"I  am  possessed  of  songs  such  as  neither 
the  spouse  of  a  king,  nor  any  son  of  man,  can 
repeat  :  one  of  them  is  called  the  Helper  ;  it 
will  help  thee  at  thy  need,  in  sickness,  grief,  and 
all  adversity." 

The  little  party  left  their  carriages  at  a  farm- 
house by  the  bridge,  and  followed  the  rough  road 
on  foot  along  the  brook  ;  now  close  upon  it, 
now  shut  out  by  intervening  trees.  Mr.  Church- 
ill, bearing  the  basket  on  his  arm,  walked  in  front 
with  his  wife  and  Alfred.  Kavanagh  came  be- 
hind with  Cecilia  and  Alice.  The  music  of  the 
brook  silenced  all  conversation  ;  only  occasional 
exclamations  of  delight  were  uttered,  —  the  irre- 
pressible applause  of  fresh  and  sensitive  natures, 
in  a  scene  so  lovely.  Presently,  turning  off 
from  the  road,  which  led  directly  to  the  mill, 


128  KAVANAGH, 

and  was  rough  with  the  tracks  of  heavy  wheels, 
they  went  down  to  the  margin  of  the  brook. 

"  How  indescribably  beautiful  this  brown  water 
is  !  "  exclaimed  Kavanagh.  "  It  is  like  wine,  or 
the  nectar  of  the  gods  of  Olympus  ;  as  if  the 
falling  Hebe  had  poured  it  from  the  goblet." 

"  More  like  the  mead  or  metheglin  of  the 
northern  gods,"  said  Mr.  Churchill,  "  spilled 
from  the  drinking-horns  of  Valhalla." 

But  all  the  ladies  thought  Kavanagh's  compari- 
son the  better  of  the  two,  and  in  fact  the  best  that 
could  be  made  ;  and  Mr.  Churchill  was  obliged  to 
retract  and  apologize  for  his  allusion  to  the  celes- 
tial ale-house  of  Odin. 

Ere  long  they  were  forced  to  cross  the  brook, 
stepping  from  stone  to  stone,  over  the  little  rapids 
and  cascades.  All  crossed  lightly,  easily,  safely  ; 
even  "  the  sumpter  mule,"  as  Mr.  Churchill 
called  himself,  on  account  of  the  pannier.  Only 
Cecilia  lingered  behind,  as  if  afraid  to  cross. 
Cecilia,  who  had  crossed  at  that  same  place  a 
hundred  times  before,  —  Cecilia,  who  had  the 
surest  foot,  and  the  firmest  nerves,  of  all  the  vil- 
lage maidens,  —  she  now  stood  irresolute,  seized 
with  a  sudden  tremor  ;  blushing,  and  laughing  at 
her  own  timidity,  and  yet  unable  to  advance. 


A    TALE.  129 

Kavanagh  saw  her  embarrassment,  and  hastened 
back  to  help  her.  Her  hand  trembled  in  his  ; 
she  thanked  him  with  a  gentle  look  and  word. 
His  whole  soul  was  softened  within  him.  His 
attitude,  his  countenance,  his  voice,  were  alike 
submissive  and  subdued.  He  was  as  one  pene- 
trated with  tenderest  emotions. 

It  is  difficult  to  know  at  what  moment  love 
begins  ;  it  is  less  difficult  to  know  that  it  has 
begun.  A  thousand  heralds  proclaim  it  to  the 
listening  air  ;  a  thousand  ministers  and  messen- 
gers betray  it  to  the  eye.  Tone,  act,  attitude 
and  look,  —  the  signals  upon  the  countenance,  — 
the  electric  telegraph  of  touch ;  —  all  these  betray 
the  yielding  citadel  before  the  word  itself  is 
uttered,  which,  like  the  key  surrendered,  opens 
every  avenue  and  gate  of  entrance,  and  makes 
retreat  impossible  ! 

The  day  passed  delightfully  with  all.  They 
sat  upon  the  stones  and  the  roots  of  trees.  Ce- 
cilia read,  from  a  volume  she  had  brought  with 
her,  poems  that  rhymed  with  the  running  water. 
The  others  listened  and  commented.  Little 
Alfred  waded  in  the  stream,  with  his  bare  white 
feet,  and  launched  boats  over  the  falls.  Noon 
had  been  fixed  upon  for  dining  ;  but  they  antici- 
9 


130  KAVANAGH, 

pated  it  by  at  least  an  hour.  The  great  basket 
was  opened  ;  endless  sandwiches  were  drawn 
forth,  and  a  cold  pastry,  as  large  as  that  of  the 
Squire  of  the  Grove.  During  the  repast,  Mr. 
Churchill  slipped  into  the  brook,  while  in  the  act 
of  handing  a  sandwich  to  his  wife,  which  caused 
unbounded  mirth  ;  and  Kavanagh  sat  down  on  a 
mossy  trunk,  that  gave  way  beneath  him,  and 
crumbled  into  powder.  This,  also,  was  received 
with  great  merriment. 

After  dinner,  they  ascended  the  brook  still 
farther,  —  indeed,  quite  to  the  mill,  which  was  not 
going.  It  had  been  stopped  in  the  midst  of  its 
work.  The  saw  still  held  its  hungry  teeth  fixed 
in  the  heart  of  a  pine.  Mr.  Churchill  took  occa- 
sion to  make  known  to  the  company  his  long 
cherished  purpose  of  writing  a  poem  called  u  The 
Song  of  the  Saw-Mill,"  and  enlarged  on  the 
beautiful  associations  of  flood  and  forest  connect- 
ed with  the  theme.  He  delighted  himself  and 
his  audience  with  the  fine  fancies  he  meant  to 
weave  into  his  poem,  and  wondered  nobody  had 
thought  of  the  subject  before.  Kavanagh  said  it 
had  been  thought  of  before  ;  and  cited  Kerner's 
little  poem,  so  charmingly  translated  by  Bryant. 
Mr.  Churchill  had  not  seen  it.  Kavanagh  looked 


A    TALE.  131 

into  his  pocket-book  for  it,  but  it  was  not  to  be 
found  ;  still  he  was  sure  that  there  was  such 
a  poem.  Mr.  Churchill  abandoned  his  design. 
He  had  spoken,  —  and  the  treasure,  just  as  he 
touched  it  with  his  hand,  was  gone  forever. 

The  party  returned  home  as  it  came,  all  tired 
and  happy,  excepting  little  Alfred,  who  was 
tired  and  cross,  and  sat  sleepy  and  sagging  on  his 
father's  knee,  with  his  hat  cocked  rather  fiercely 
over  his  eyes. 


132  KAVANAGH, 


XXII. 

THE  brown  Autumn  came.  Out  of  doors,  it 
brought  to  the  fields  the  prodigality  of  the  yellow 
harvest,  —  to  the  forest,  revelations  of  light,  — 
and  to  the  sky,  the  sharp  air,  the  morning  mist, 
the  red  clouds  at  evening.  Within  doors,  the 
sense  of  seclusion,  the  stillness  of  closed  and 
curtained  windows,  musings  by  the  fireside,  books, 
friends,  conversation,  and  the  long,  meditative 
evenings.  To  the  farmer,  it  brought  surcease  of 
toil,  —  to  the  scholar,  that  sweet  delirium  of  the 
brain  which  changes  toil  to  pleasure.  It  brought 
the  wild  duck  back  to  the  reedy  marshes  of  the 
south ;  it  brought  the  wild  song  back  to  the 
fervid  brain  of  the  poet.  Without,  the  village 
street  was  paved  with  gold  ;  the  river  ran  red 
with  the  reflection  of  the  leaves.  Within,  the 
faces  of  friends  brightened  the  gloomy  walls  ;  the 


A    TALE.  133 

returning  footsteps  of  the  long-absent  gladdened 
the  threshold ;  and  all  the  sweet  amenities  of 
social  life  again  resumed  their  interrupted  reign. 

Kavanagh  preached  a  sermon  on  the  coming 
of  Autumn.  He  chose  his  text  from  Isaiah,  — 
"Who  is  this  that  cometh  from  Edom,  with 
dyed  garments  from  Bozrah  ?  this  that  is  glori- 
ous in  his  apparel,  travelling  in  the  greatness  of 
his  strength  ?  Wherefore  art  thou  red  in  thine 
apparel,  and  thy  garments  like  him  that  treadeth 
in  the  wine-vat  ?  " 

To  Mr.  Churchill,  this  beloved  season  —  this 
Joseph  with  his  coat  of  many  colors,  as  he  was 
fond  of  calling  it  —  brought  an  unexpected  guest, 
the  forlorn,  forsaken  Lucy.  The  surmises  of  the 
family  were  too  true.  She  had  wandered  away 
with  the  Briareus  of  boots.  She  returned  alone, 
in  destitution  and  despair  ;  and  often,  in  the  grief 
of  a  broken  heart  and  a  bewildered  brain,  was 
heard  to  say,  — 

"  O,  how  I  wish  I  were  a  Christian  !  If  I 
were  only  a  Christian,  I  would  not  live  any 
longer  ;  I  would  kill  myself !  I  am  too  wretch- 
ed !  » 

A  few  days  afterwards,  a  gloomy -looking  man 
rode  through  the  town  on  horseback,  stopping  at 


134  KAVANAGH, 

every  corner,  and  crying  into  every  street,  with  a 
loud  and  solemn  voice,  — 

"  Prepare  !  prepare  !  prepare  to  meet  the 
living  God  !  " 

It  was  one  of  that  fanatical  sect,  who  believed 
the  end  of  the  world  was  imminent,  and  had  pre- 
pared their  ascension  robes  to  be  lifted  up  in 
clouds  of  glory,  while  the  worn-out,  weary  world 
was  to  burn  with  fire  beneath  them,  and  a  new 
and  fairer  earth  to  be  prepared  for  their  inherit- 
ance. The  appearance  of  this  forerunner  of  the 
end  of  the  world  was  followed  by  numerous 
camp-meetings,  held  in  the  woods  near  the  vil- 
lage, to  whose  white  tents  and  leafy  chapels  many 
went  for  consolation  and  found  despair. 


A    TALE.  135 


XXIII. 

AGAIN  the  two  crumbly  old  women  sat  and 
talked  together  in  the  little  parlour  of  the  gloomy 
house  under  the  poplars,  and  the  two  girls  sat 
above,  holding  each  other  by  the  hand,  thoughtful, 
and  speaking  only  at  intervals. 

Alice  was  unusually  sad  and  silent.  The 
mists  were  already  gathering  over  her  vision,  — 
those  mists  that  were  to  deepen  and  darken  as  the 
season  advanced,  until  the  external  world  should 
be  shrouded  and  finally  shut  from  her  view.  Al- 
ready the  landscape  began  to  wear  a  pale  and 
sickly  hue,  as  if  the  sun  were  withdrawing 
farther  and  farther,  and  were  soon  wholly  to 
disappear,  as  in  a  northern  winter.  But  to 
brighten  this  northern  winter  there  now  arose 
within  her  a  soft,  auroral  light.  Yes,  the  auroral 
light  of  love,  blushing  through  the  whole  heaven 


136  KAVANAGH, 

of  her  thoughts.  She  had  not  breathed  that 
word  to  herself,  nor  did  she  recognize  any  thrill 
of  passion  in  the  new  emotion  she  experienced. 
But  love  it  was  ;  and  it  lifted  her  soul  into  a 
region,  which  she  at  once  felt  was  native  to  it,  — 
into  a  subtler  ether,  which  seemed  its  natural 
element. 

This  feeling,  however,  was  not  all  exhilaration. 
It  brought  with  it  its  own  peculiar  languor  and 
sadness,  its  fluctuations  and  swift  vicissitudes  of 
excitement  and  depression.  To  this  the  trivial 
circumstances  of  life  contributed.  Kavanagh  had 
met  her  in  the  street,  and  had  passed  her  with- 
out recognition  ;  and,  in  the  bitterness  of  the 
moment,  she  forgot  that  she  wore  a  thick  veil, 
which  entirely  concealed  her  face.  At  an  eve- 
ning party  at  Mr.  Churchill's,  by  a  kind  of  fatality, 
Kavanagh  had  stood  very  near  her  for  a  long 
time,  but  with  his  back  turned,  conversing  with 
Miss  Hawkins,  from  whose  toils  he  was,  in  fact, 
though  vainly,  struggling  to  extricate  himself; 
and,  in  the  irritation  of  supposed  neglect,  Alice 
had  said  to  herself,  — 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  woman  which  most 
fascinates  men  !  " 

But   these  cruel    moments  of  pain   were  few 


A    TALE.  137 

and  short,  while  those  of  delight  were  many  and 
lasting.  In  a  life  so  lonely,  and  with  so  little 
to  enliven  and  embellish  it  as  hers,  the  guest  in 
disguise  was  welcomed  with  ardor,  and  enter- 
tained without  fear  or  suspicion.  Had  he  been 
feared  or  suspected,  he  would  have  been  no 
longer  dangerous.  He  came  as  friendship,  wiiere 
friendship  was  most  needed  ;  he  came  as  de- 
votion, where  her  holy  ministrations  were  always 
welcome. 

Somewhat  differently  had  the  same  passion 
come  to  the  heart  of  Cecilia  ;  for  as  the  heart  is, 
so  is  love  to  the  heart.  It  partakes  of  its  strength 
or  weakness,  its  health  or  disease.  In  Cecilia, 
it  but  heightened  the  keen  sensation  of  life. 
To  all  eyes,  she  became  more  beautiful,  more 
radiant,  more  lovely,  though  they  knew  not  why. 
When  she  and  Kavanagh  first  met,  it  was  hardly 
as  strangers  meet,  but  rather  as  friends  long 
separated.  When  they  first  spoke  to  each  other, 
it  seemed  but  as  the  renewal  of  some  previous 
interrupted  conversation.  Their  souls  flowed 
together  at  once,  without  turbulence  or  agitation, 
like  waters  on  the  same  level.  As  they  found 
each  other  without  seeking,  so  their  intercourse 
was  without  affectation  and  without  embarrass- 
ment. 


133  KAVANAGH, 

Thus,  while  Alice,  unconsciously  to  herself, 
desired  the  love  of  Kavanagh,  Cecilia,  as  un- 
consciously, assumed  it  as  already  her  own. 
Alice  keenly  felt  her  own  unworthiness  ;  Cecilia 
made  no  comparison  of  merit.  When  Kava- 
nagh was  present,  Alice  was  happy,  but  em- 
barrassed ;  Cecilia,  joyous  and  natural.  The 
former  feared  she  might  displease  ;  the  latter 
divined  from  the  first  that  she  already  pleased. 
In  both,  this  was  the  intuition  of  the  heart. 

So  sat  the  friends  together,  as  they  had  done 
so  many  times  before.  But  now,  for  the  first 
time,  each  cherished  a  secret,  which  she  did  not 
confide  to  the  other.  Daily,  for  many  weeks,  the 
feathered  courier  had  come  and  gone  from  win- 
dow to  window,  but  this  secret  had  never  been 
intrusted  to  his  keeping.  Almost  daily  the 
friends  had  met  and  talked  together,  but  this 
secret  had  not  been  told.  That  could  not  be 
confided  to  another,  which  had  not  been  confided 
to  themselves  ;  that  could  not  be  fashioned  into 
words,  which  was  not  yet  fashioned  into  thoughts, 
but  was  still  floating,  vague  and  formless,  through 
the  mind.  Nay,  had  it  been  stated  in  words, 
each,  perhaps,  would  have  denied  it.  The 
distinct  apparition  of  this  fair  spirit,  in  a  visible 


A    TALE.  139 

form,  would  have  startled  them ;  though,  while 
it  haunted  all  the  chambers  of  their  souls  as  an 
invisible  presence,  it  gave  them  only  solace  and 
delight. 

tc  How  very  feverish  your  hand  is,  dearest  !  " 
said  Cecilia.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you 
unwell  ?  " 

u  Those  are  the  very  words  my  mother  said 
to  me  this  morning,"  replied  Alice.  u  I  feel 
rather  languid  and  tired,  that  is  all.  I  could  not 
sleep  last  night ;  I  never  can,  when  it  rains." 

"  Did  it  rain  last  night  ?     I  did  not  hear  it." 

u  Yes  ;  about  midnight,  quite  hard.  I  listened 
to  it  for  hours.  I  love  to  lie  awake,  and  hear  the 
drops  fall  on  the  roof,  and  on  the  leaves.  It 
throws  me  into  a  delicious,  dreamy  state,  which 
I  like  much  better  than  sleep." 

Cecilia  looked  tenderly  at  her  pale  face.  Her 
eyes  were  very  bright,  and  on  each  cheek  was 
a  crimson  signal,  the  sight  of  which  would  have 
given  her  mother  so  much  anguish,  that,  perhaps, 
it  was  better  for  her  to  be  blind  than  to  see. 

"  When  you  enter  the  land  of  dreams,  Alice, 
you  come  into  my  peculiar  realm.  I  am  the 
queen  of  that  country,  you  know.  But,  of  late, 
I  have  thought  of  resigning  my  throne.  These 


140  KAVANAGH, 

endless  reveries  are  really  a  great  waste  of  time 
and  strength." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

uYes;  and  Mr.  Kavanagh  thinks  so,  too. 
We  talked  about  it  the  other  evening  ;  and  after- 
wards, upon  reflection,  I  thought  he  was  right." 

And  the  friends  resolved,  half  in  jest  and  half 
in  earnest,  that,  from  that  day  forth,  the  gate  of 
their  day-dreams  should  be  closed.  And  closed 
it  was,  ere  long  ;  —  for  one,  by  the  Angel  of 
Life  ;  for  the  other,  by  the  Angel  of  Death  ! 


A    TALE.  141 


XXIV. 

THE  project  of  the  new  Magazine  being 
heard  of  no  more,  and  Mr.  Churchill  being 
consequently  deprived  of  his  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  readers,  he  laid  aside  the  few  notes 
he  had  made  for  his  papers  on  the  Obscure 
Martyrs,  and  turned  his  thoughts  again  to  the 
great  Romance.  A  whole  leisure  Saturday 
afternoon  was  before  him,  —  pure  gold,  with- 
out alloy.  Ere  beginning  his  task,  he  stepped 
forth  into  his  garden  to  inhale  the  sunny  air, 
and  let  his  thoughts  recede  a  little,  in  order 
to  leap  farther.  When  he  returned,  glowing 
and  radiant  with  poetic  fancies,  he  found,  to  his 
unspeakable  dismay,  an  unknown  damsel  sitting 
in  his  arm-chair.  She  was  rather  gayly  yet 
elegantly  dressed,  and  wore  a  veil,  which  she 
raised  as  Mr.  Churchill  entered,  fixing  upon 
him  the  full,  liquid  orbs  of  her  large  eyes. 


142  KAVANAGH, 

u  Mr.  Churchill,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  she,  rising, 
and  stepping  forward. 

"  The  same,"  replied  the  school-master,  with 
dignified  courtesy. 

"  And  will  you  permit  me,"  she  continued, 
not  without  a  certain  serene  self-possession,  "  to 
introduce  myself,  for  want  of  a  better  person  to 
do  it  for  me  ?  My  name  is  Cartwright,  — 
Clarissa  Cartwright." 

This  announcement  did  not  produce  that  pow- 
erful and  instantaneous  effect  on  Mr.  Churchill 
which  the  speaker  seemed  to  anticipate,  or  at 
least  to  hope.  His  eye  did  not  brighten  with 
any  quick  recognition,  nor  did  he  suddenly 
exclaim,  — 

"What!  Are  you  Miss  Cartwright,  the 
poetess,  whose  delightful  effusions  I  have  seen 
in  all  the  magazines  ?  " 

On  the  contrary,  he  looked  rather  blank  and 
expectant,  and  only  said, — 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  ;  pray  sit  down." 

So  that  the  young  lady  herself  was  obliged 
to  communicate  the  literary  intelligence  above 
alluded  to,  which  she  did  very  gracefully,  and 
then  added,  — 

"  I  have  come  to    ask  a  great  favor  of  you, 


A    TALE.  143 

Mr.  Churchill,  which  I  hope  you  will  not  deny 
me.  By  the  advice  of  some  friends,  I  have  col- 
lected my  poems  together,"  —  and  here  she 
drew  forth  from  a  paper  a  large,  thin  manuscript, 
bound  in  crimson  velvet,  —  "  and  think  of  pub- 
lishing them  in  a  volume.  Now,  would  you  not 
do  me  the  favor  to  look  them  over,  and  give 
me  your  candid  opinion,  whether  they  are 
worth  publishing  ?  I  should  value  your  advice 
so  highly  !  " 

This  simultaneous  appeal  to  his  vanity  and 
his  gallantry  from  a  fair  young  girl,  standing  on 
the  verge  of  that  broad,  dangerous  ocean,  in 
which  so  many  have  perished,  and  looking  wist- 
fully over  its  flashing  waters  to  the  shores  of 
the  green  Isle  of  % Palms,  —  such  an  appeal,  from 
such  a  person,  it  was  impossible  for  Mr.  Church- 
ill to  resist.  He  made,  however,  a  faint  show 
of  resistance,  —  a  feeble  grasping  after  some 
excuse  for  refusal,  —  and  then  yielded.  He 
received  from  Clarissa's  delicate,  trembling  hand 
the  precious  volume,  and  from  her  eyes  a  still 
more  precious  look  of  thanks,  and  then  said,  — 

u  What  name  do  you  propose  to  give  the 
volume  ? " 

"  Symphonies  of  the  Soul,  and  other  Poems," 


144  KAVANAGH, 

said  the  young  lady  ;  "and,  if  you  like  them, 
and  it  would  not  be  asking  too  much,  I  should 
be  delighted  to  have  you  write  a  Preface,  to  in- 
troduce the  work  to  the  public.  The  publisher 
says  it  would  increase  the  sale  very  consid- 
erably." 

"  Ah,  the  publisher  !  yes,  but  that  is  not  very 
complimentary  to  yourself,"  suggested  Mr. 
Churchill.  UI  can  already  see  your  Poems 
rebelling  against  the  intrusion  of  my  Preface, 
and  rising  like  so  many  nuns  in  a  convent  to 
expel  the  audacious  foot  that  has  dared  to  invade 
their  sacred  precincts." 

But  it  was  all  in  vain,  this  pale  effort  at 
pleasantry.  Objection  was  useless  ;  and  the 
soft-hearted  school-master  a  second  time  yielded 
gracefully  to  his  fate,  and  promised  the  Preface. 
The  young  lady  took  her  leave  with  a  profusion 
of  thanks  and  blushes  ;  and  the  dainty  manu- 
script, with  its  delicate  chirography  and  crimson 
cover,  remained  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Churchill, 
who  gazed  at  it  less  as  a  Paradise  of  Dainty 
Devices  than  as  a  deed  or  mortgage  of  so 
many  precious  hours  of  his  own  scanty  inherit- 
ance of  time. 

Afterwards,  when    he    complained  a  little    of 


A    TALE.  145 

this  to  his  wife,  —  who,  during  the  interview,  had 
peeped  in  at  the  door,  and,  seeing  how  he  was 
occupied,  had  immediately  withdrawn,  —  she  said 
that  nobody  was  to  blame  but  himself;  that  he 
should  learn  to  say  "  No  !  "  and  not  do  just  as 
every  romantic  little  girl  from  the  Academy 
wanted  him  to  do  ;  adding,  as  a  final  aggravation 
and  climax  of  reproof,  that  she  really  believed 
he  never  would,  and  never  meant  to,  begin  his 
Romance  ! 


10 


146  KAVANAGH, 


XXV. 

NOT  long  afterwards,  Kavanagh  and  Mr. 
Churchill  took  a  stroll  together  across  the  fields, 
and  down  green  lanes,  walking  all  the  bright, 
brief  afternoon.  From  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
beside  the  old  windmill,  they  saw  the  sun  set ; 
and,  opposite,  the  full  moon  rise,  dewy,  large, 
and  red.  As  they  descended,  they  felt  the 
heavy  dampness  of  the  air,  like  water,  rising  to 
meet  them,  —  bathing  with  coolness  first  their 
feet,  then  their  hands,  then  their  faces,  till  they 
were  submerged  in  that  sea  of  dew.  As  they 
skirted  the  woodland  on  their  homeward  way, 
trampling  the  golden  leaves  under  foot,  they 
heard  voices  at  a  distance,  singing  ;  and  then 
saw  the  lights  of  the  camp-meeting  gleaming 
through  the  trees,  and,  drawing  nearer,  dis- 
tinguished a  portion  of  the  hymn  :  — 


A    TALE.  147 

"Don't  you  hear  the  Lord  a-coming 
To  the  old  church-yards, 

With  a  band  of  music, 

With  a  band  of  music, 

With  a  band  of  music, 
Sounding  through  the  air  ?  " 

These  words,  at  once  awful  and  ludicrous, 
rose  on  the  still  twilight  air  from  a  hundred 
voices,  thrilling  with  emotion,  and  from  as  many 
beating,  fluttering,  struggling  hearts.  High  above 
them  all  was  heard  one  voice,  clear  and  musical 
as  a  clarion. 

"  I  know  that  voice,"  said  Mr.  Churchill  ;  "  it 
is  Elder  Evans's." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Kavanagh,  —  for  only  the 
impression  of  awe  was  upon  him,  —  "he  never 
acted  in  a  deeper  tragedy  than  this  !  How 
terrible  it  is  !  Let  us  pass  on." 

They  hurried  away,  Kavanagh  trembling  in 
every  fibre.  Silently  they  walked,  the  music 
fading  into  softest  vibrations  behind  them. 

"  How  strange  is  this  fanaticism  !  "  at  length 
said  Mr.  Churchill,  rather  as  a  relief  to  his 
own  thoughts,  than  for  the  purpose  of  reviving 
the  conversation.  "  These  people  really  be- 
lieve that  the  end  of  the  world  is  close  at  hand." 


148  KAVANAGH, 

"  And  to  thousands,"  answered  Kavanagh, 
u  this  is  no  fiction, — no  illusion  of  an  over- 
heated imagination.  To-day,  to-morrow,  every 
day,  to  thousands,  the  end  of  the  world  is  close 
at  hand.  And  why  should  we  fear  it  ?  We 
walk  here  as  it  were  in  the  crypts  of  life  ;  at 
times,  from  the  great  cathedral  above  us,  we 
can  hear  the  organ  and  the  chanting  of  the  choir  ; 
we  see  the  light  stream  through  the  open  door, 
when  some  friend  goes  up  before  us  ;  and  shall 
we  fear  to  mount  the  narrow  staircase  of  the 
grave,  that  leads  us  out  of  this  uncertain  twilight 
into  the  serene  mansions  of  the  life  eternal  ? " 

They  reached  the  wooden  bridge  over  the 
river,  which  the  moonlight  converted  into  a  river 
of  light.  Their  footsteps  sounded  on  the  planks  ; 
they  passed  without  perceiving  a  female  figure 
that  stood  in  the  shadow  below  on  the  brink  of 
the  stream,  watching  wistfully  the  steady  flow 
of  the  current.  It  was  Lucy  !  Her  bonnet 
and  shawl  were  lying  at  her  feet ;  and  when  they 
had  passed,  she  waded  far  out  into  the  shallow 
stream,  laid  herself  gently  down  in  its  deeper 
waves,  and  floated  slowly  away  into  the  moon- 
light, among  the  golden  leaves  that  were  faded 
and  fallen  like  herself,  —  among  the  water-lilies, 


A    TALE.  149 

whose  fragrant  white  blossoms  had  been  broken 
off  and  polluted  long  ago.  Without  a  struggle, 
without  a  sigh,  without  a  sound,  she  floated  down- 
ward, downward,  and  silently  sank  into  the  silent 
river.  Far  off,  faint,  and  indistinct,  was  heard 
the  startling  hymn,  with  its  wild  and  peculiar 
melody, — 

"  O,  there  will  be  mourning,  mourning,  mourning,  mourn- 
ing,— 

0,    there   will   be   mourning,    at   the    judgment-seat   of 
Christ!" 

Kavanagh's  heart  was  full  of  sadness.  He  left 
Mr.  Churchill  at  his  door,  and  proceeded  home- 
ward. On  passing  his  church,  he  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  go  in.  He  climbed 
to  his  chamber  in  the  tower,  lighted  by  the 
moon.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  gazing  from 
the  window,  and  watching  a  distant  and  feeble 
candle,  whose  rays  scarcely  reached  him  across 
the  brilliant  moon-lighted  air.  Gentler  thoughts 
stole  over  him  ;  an  invisible  presence  soothed 
him  ;  an  invisible  hand  was  laid  upon  his  head, 
and  the  trouble  and  unrest  of  his  spirit  were 
changed  to  peace. 

"  Answer  me,  thou  mysterious  future  !  "  ex- 


150  KAVANAGH, 

claimed  he;  "  tell  me, — shall  these  things  be 
according  to  my  desires  ?  " 

And  the  mysterious  future,  interpreted  by  those 
desires,  replied,  — 

"  Soon  thou  shalt  know  all.  It  shall  be  well 
with  thee  !  " 


A    TALE.  151 


XXVI. 

ON  the  following  morning,  Kavanagh  sat  as 
usual  in  his  study  in  the  tower.  No  traces  were 
left  of  the  heaviness  and  sadness  of  the  preceding 
night.  It  was  a  bright,  warm  morning  ;  and  the 
window,  open  towards  the  south,  let  in  the  genial 
sunshine.  The  odor  of  decaying  leaves  scented 
the  air  ;  far  off  flashed  the  hazy  river. 

Kavanagh's  heart,  however,  was  not  at  rest. 
At  times  he  rose  from  his  books,  and  paced  up 
and  down  his  little  study  ;  then  took  up  his  hat 
as  if  to  go  out  ;  then  laid  it  down  again,  and 
again  resumed  his  books.  At  length  he  arose, 
and,  leaning  on  the  window-sill,  gazed  for  a  long 
time  on  the  scene  before  him.  Some  thought 
was  laboring  in  his  bosom,  some  doubt  or  fear, 
which  alternated  with  hope,  but  thwarted  any 
fixed  resolve. 


152  KAVANAGH, 

Ah,  how  pleasantly  that  fair  autumnal  land- 
scape smiled  upon  him  !  The  great  golden  elms 
that  marked  the  line  of  the  village  street,  and 
under  whose  shadows  no  beggars  sat  ;  the  air 
of  comfort  and  plenty,  of  neatness,  thrift,  and 
equality,  visible  everywhere  ;  and  from  far-off 
farms  the  sound  of  flails,  beating  the  triumphal 
k  march  of  Ceres  through  the  land  ;  —  these  were 
the  sights  and  sounds  that  greeted  him  as  he 
looked.  Silently  the  yellow  leaves  fell  upon  the 
graves  in  the  church-yard  ;  and  the  dew  glistened 
in  the  grass,  which  was  still  long  and  green. 

Presently  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a  dove, 
pursued  by  a  little  kingfisher,  who  constantly 
endeavoured  to  soar  above  it,  in  order  to  attack 
it  at  greater  advantage.  The  flight  of  the  birds, 
thus  shooting  through  the  air  at  arrowy  speed, 
was  beautiful.  When  they  were  opposite  the 
tower,  the  dove  suddenly  wheeled,  and  darted 
in  at  the  open  window,  while  the  pursuer  held 
on  his  way  with  a  long  sweep,  and  was  out  of 
sight  in  a  moment. 

At  the  first  glance,  Kavanagh  recognized  the 
dove,  which  lay  panting  on  the  floor.  It  was 
the  same  he  had  seen  Cecilia  buy  of  the  little 
man  in  gray.  He  took  it  in  his  hands.  Its  heart 


A    TALE.  153 

was  beating  violently.  About  its  neck  was  a 
silken  band  ;  beneath  its  wing,  a  billet,  upon 
which  was  a  single  word,  u  Cecilia."  The  bird, 
then,  was  on  its  way  to  Cecilia  Vaughan.  He 
hailed  the  omen  as  auspicious,  and,  immediately 
closing  the  window,  seated  himself  at  his  table, 
and  wrote  a  few  hurried  words,  which,  being 
carefully  folded  and  sealed,  he  fastened  to  the 
band,  and  then  hastily,  as  if  afraid  his  purpose 
might  be  changed  by  delay,  opened  the  window 
and  set  the  bird  at  liberty.  It  sailed  once  or 
twice  round  the  tower,  apparently  uncertain  and 
bewildered,  or  still  in  fear  of  its  pursuer.  Then, 
instead  of  holding  its  way  over  the  fields  to 
Cecilia  Vaughan,  it  darted  over  the  roofs  of  the 
village,  and  alighted  at  the  window  of  Alice 
Archer. 

Having  written  that  morning  to  Cecilia  some- 
thing urgent  and  confidential,  she  was  already 
waiting  the  answer  ;  and,  not  doubting  that  the 
bird  had  brought  it,  she  hastily  untied  the  silken 
band,  and,  without  looking  at  the  superscription, 
opened  the  first  note  that  fell  on  the  table.  It 
was  very  brief;  only  a  few  lines,  and  not  a  name 
mentioned  in  it ;  an  impulse,  an  ejaculation  of 
love  ;  every  line  quivering  with  electric  fire,  — 


154  KAVANAGH, 

every  word  a  pulsation  of  the  writer's  heart. 
It  was  signed  "  Arthur  Kavanagh." 

Overwhelmed  by  the  suddenness  and  violence 
of  her  emotions,  Alice  sat  for  a  long  time  motion- 
less, holding  the  open  letter  in  her  hand.  Then 
she  read  it  again,  and  then  relapsed  into  her 
dream  of  joy  and  wonder.  It  would  be  difficult 
to  say  which  of  the  two  emotions  was  the  greater, 
—  her  joy  that  her  prayer  for  love  should  be 
answered,  and  so  answered,  —  her  wonder  that 
Kavanagh  should  have  selected  her  !  In  the 
tumult  of  her  sensations,  and  hardly  conscious 
of  what  she  was  doing,  she  folded  the  note  and 
replaced  it  in  its  envelope.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  her  eye  fell  on  the  superscription.  It  was 
"  Cecilia  Vaughan."  Alice  fainted. 

On  recovering  her  senses,  her  first  act  was  one 
of  heroism.  She  sealed  the  note,  attached  it 
to  the  neck  of  the  pigeon,  and  sent  the  messen- 
ger rejoicing  on  his  journey.  Then  her  feel- 
ings had  way,  and  she  wept  long  and  bitterly. 
Then,  with  a  desperate  calmness,  she  reproved 
her  own  weakness  and  selfishness,  and  felt  that 
she  ought  to  rejoice  in  the  happiness  of  her 
friend,  and  sacrifice  her  affection,  even  her  life, 
to  her.  Her  heart  exculpated  Kavanagh  from 


A    TALE.  155 

all  blame.  He  had  not  deluded  her  ;  she  had 
deluded  herself.  She  alone  was  in  fault  ;  and 
in  deep  humiliation,  with  wounded  pride  and 
wounded  love,  and  utter  self-abasement,  she 
bowed  her  head  and  prayed  for  consolation  and 
fortitude. 

One  consolation  she  already  had.  The  secret 
was  her  own.  She  had  not  revealed  it  even  to 
Cecilia.  Kavanagh  did  not  suspect  it.  Public 
curiosity,  public  pity,  she  would  not  have  to 
undergo. 

She  was  resigned.  She  made  the  heroic 
sacrifice  of  self,  leaving  her  sorrow  to  the  great 
physician,  Time,  —  the  nurse  of  care,  the  healer 
of  all  smarts,  the  soother  and  consoler  of  all 
sorrows.  And,  thenceforward,  she  became  unto 
Kavanagh  what  the  moon  is  to  the  sun,  for  ever 
following,  for  ever  separated,  for  ever  sad  ! 

As  a  traveller,  about  to  start  upon  his  journey, 
resolved  and  yet  irresolute,  watches  the  clouds, 
and  notes  the  struggle  between  the  sunshine  and 
the  showers,  and  says,  "  It  will  be  fair  ;  I  will 
go,"  —  and  again  says,  u  Ah,  no,  not  yet  ;  the 
rain  is  not  yet  over,"  —  so  at  this  same  hour  sat 
Cecilia  Vaughan,  resolved  and  yet  irresolute, 
longing  to  depart  upon  the  fair  journey  before 


156  KAVANAGH, 

her,  and  yet  lingering  on  the  paternal  threshold, 
as  if  she  wished  both  to  stay  and  to  go,  seeing 
the  sky  was  not  without  its  clouds,  nor  the  road 
without  its  dangers. 

It  was  a  beautiful  picture,  as  she  sat  there 
with  sweet  perplexity  in  her  face,  and  above  it 
an  immortal  radiance  streaming  from  her  brow. 
She  was  like  Guercino's  Sibyl,  with  the  scroll 
of  fate  and  the  uplifted  pen  ;  and  the  scroll  she 
held  contained  but  three  words,  —  three  words 
that  controlled  the  destiny  of  a  man,  and,  by 
their  soft  impulsion,  directed  for  evermore  the 
current  of  his  thoughts.  They  were,  — 

"  Come  to  me  !  " 

The  magic  syllables  brought  Kavanagh  to  her 
side.  The  full  soul  is  silent.  Only  the  rising 
and  falling  tides  rush  murmuring  through  their 
channels.  So  sat  the  lovers,  hand  in  hand  ;  but 
for  a  long  time  neither  spake,  —  neither  had  need 
of  speech  ! 


A    TALE.  157 


XXVII. 

IN  the  afternoon,  Cecilia  went  to  communicate 
the  news  to  Alice  with  her  own  lips,  thinking  it 
too  important  to  be  intrusted  to  the  wings  of  the 
carrier-pigeon.  As  she  entered  the  door,  the 
cheerful  doctor  was  coming  out ;  but  this  was  no 
unusual  apparition,  and  excited  no  alarm.  Mrs. 
Archer,  too,  according  to  custom,  was  sitting  in 
the  little  parlour  with  her  decrepit  old  neighbour, 
who  seemed  almost  to  have  taken  up  her  abode 
under  that  roof,  so  many  hours  of  every  day  did 
she  pass  there. 

With  a  light,  elastic  step,  Cecilia  bounded  up 
to  Alice's  room.  She  found  her  reclining  in  her 
large  chair,  flushed  and  excited.  Sitting  down 
by  her  side,  and  taking  both  her  hands,  she  said, 
with  great  emotion  in  the  tones  of  her  voice,  — 

"  Dearest   Alice,   I  have  brought   you   some 


158  KAVANAGH, 

news  that  I  am  sure  will  make  you  well.  For 
my  sake,  you  will  be  no  longer  ill  when  you  hear 
it.  I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Kavanagh  !  " 

Alice  feigned  no  surprise  at  this  announcement. 
She  returned  the  warm  pressure  of  Cecilia's 
hand,  and,  looking  affectionately  in  her  face,  said 
very  calmly,  — 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  I  knew  that  he 
loved  you,  and  that  you  would  love  him." 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?  "  said  Cecilia,  her 
eyes  beaming  with  dewy  light  ;  "  could  any  one 
help  loving  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Alice,  throwing  her  arms 
around  Cecilia's  neck,  and  laying  her  head  upon 
her  shoulder  ;  "  at  least,  no  one  whom  he  loved. 
But  when  did  this  happen  ?  Tell  me  all  about 
it,  dearest  !  " 

Cecilia  was  surprised,  and  perhaps  a  little  hurt, 
at  the  quiet,  almost  impassive  manner  in  which 
her  friend  received  this  great  intelligence.  She 
had  expected  exclamations  of  wonder  and  delight, 
and  such  a  glow  of  excitement  as  that  with 
which  she  was  sure  she  should  have  hailed  the 
announcement  of  Alice's  engagement.  But  this 
momentary  annoyance  was  soon  swept  away  by 
the  tide  of  her  own  joyous  sensations,  as  she 


A    TALE.  159 

proceeded  to  recall  to  the  recollection  of  her 
friend  the  thousand  little  circumstances  that  had 
marked  the  progress  of  her  love  and  Kavanagh's  ; 
things  which  she  must  have  noticed,  which  she 
could  not  have  forgotten  ;  with  questions  inter- 
spersed at  intervals,  such  as,  "  Do  you  recollect 
when  ?"  and  "I  am  sure  you  have  not  forgot- 
ten, have  you  ?  "  and  dreamy  little  pauses  of 
silence,  and  intercalated  sighs.  She  related  to 
her,  also,  the  perilous  adventure  of  the  carrier- 
pigeon  ;  how  it  had  been  pursued  by  the  cruel 
kingfisher  ;  how  it  had  taken  refuge  in  Kava- 
nagh's tower,  and  had  been  the  bearer  of  his 
letter,  as  well  as  her  own.  When  she  had 
finished,  she  felt  her  bosom  wet  with  the  tears 
of  Alice,  who  was  suffering  martyrdom  on  that 
soft  breast,  so  full  of  happiness.  Tears  of 
bitterness, — tears  of  blood  !  And  Cecilia,  in 
the  exultant  temper  of  her  soul  at  the  moment, 
thought  them  tears  of  joy,  and  pressed  Alice 
closer  to  her  heart,  and  kissed  and  caressed  her. 

"  Ah,  how  very  happy  you  are,  Cecilia  !  " 
at  length  sighed  the  poor  sufferer,  in  that  slightly 
querulous  tone,  to  which  Cecilia  was  not  unac- 
customed; "  how  very  happy  you  are,  and  how 
very  wretched  am  I  !  You  have  all  the  joy  of 


160  KAVANAGH, 

life,  I  all  its  loneliness.  How  little  you  will 
think  of  me  now  !  How  little  you  will  need  me  ! 
I  shall  be  nothing  to  you,  —  you  will  forget  me." 

"  Never,  dearest!"  exclaimed  Cecilia,  with 
much  warmth  and  sincerity.  "  I  shall  love  you 
only  the  more.  We  shall  both  love  you.  You 
will  now  have  two  friends  instead  of  one." 

"  Yes  ;  but  both  will  not  be  equal  to  the  one 
I  lose.  No,  Cecilia  ;  let  us  not  make  to  our- 
selves any  illusions.  I  do  not.  You  cannot  now 
be  with  me  so  much  and  so  often  as  you  have 
been.  Even  if  you  were,  your  thoughts  would 
be  elsewhere.  Ah,  I  have  lost  my  friend,  when 
most  I  needed  her  !  " 

Cecilia  protested  ardently  and  earnestly,  and 
dilated  with  eagerness  on  her  little  plan  of  life,  in 
which  their  romantic  friendship  was  to  gain  only 
new  strength  and  beauty  from  the  more  romantic 
love.  She  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the 
street  door  ;  on  hearing  which,  she  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  — 

"  It  is  Arthur.     He  was  to  call  for  me." 

Ah,  what  glimpses  of  home,  and  fireside,  and  a 
whole  life  of  happiness  for  Cecilia,  were  revealed 
by  that  one  word  of  love  and  intimacy,  "Ar- 
thur "  !  and  for  Alice,  what  a  sentence  of  doom  ! 


A    TALE.  161 

what  sorrow  without  a  name  !  what  an  endless 
struggle  of  love  and  friendship,  of  duty  and  in- 
clination !  A  little  quiver  of  the  eyelids  and  the 
hands,  a  hasty  motion  to  raise  her  head  from 
Cecilia's  shoulder,  —  these  were  the  only  out- 
ward signs  of  emotion.  But  a  terrible  pang  went 
to  her  heart  ;  her  blood  rushed  eddying  to  her 
brain  ;  and  when  Cecilia  had  taken  leave  of  her 
with  the  triumphant  look  of  love  beaming  upon  her 
brow,  and  an  elevation  in  her  whole  attitude  and 
bearing,  as  if  borne  up  by  attendant  angels,  she 
sank  back  into  her  chair,  exhausted,  fainting, 
fearing,  longing,  hoping  to  die. 

And  below  sat  the  two  old  women,  talking  of 
moths,  and  cheap  furniture,  and  what  was  the  best 
remedy  for  rheumatism  ;  and  from  the  door  went 
forth  two  happy  hearts,  beating  side  by  side  with 
the  pulse  of  youth  and  hope  and  joy,  and  within 
them  and  around  them  was  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth  ! 

Only  those  who  have  lived  in  a  small  town  can 
really  know  how  great  an  event  therein  is  a  new 
engagement.  From  tongue  to  tongue  passes  the 
swift  countersign  ;  from  eye  to  eye  flashes  the 
illumination  of  joy,  or  the  bale-fire  of  alarm  ;  the 
streets  and  houses  ring  with  it,  as  with  the  pene- 
11 


162  KAVANAGH, 

trating,  all-pervading  sound  of  the  village  bell  ; 
the  whole  community  feels  a  thrill  of  sympathy, 
and  seems  to  congratulate  itself  that  all  the 
great  events  are  by  no  means  confined  to  the 
great  towns.  As  Cecilia  and  Kavanagh  passed 
arm  in  arm  through  the  village,  many  curious  eyes 
watched  them  from  the  windows,  many  hearts 
grown  cold  or  careless  rekindled  their  household 
fires  of  love  from  the  golden  altar  of  God,  borne 
through  the  streets  by  those  pure  and  holy  hands  ! 

The  intelligence  of  the  engagement,  however, 
was  received  very  differently  by  different  persons. 
Mrs.  Wilmer dings  wondered,  for  her  part,  why 
any  body  wanted  to  get  married  at  all.  The  little 
taxidermist  said  he  knew  it  would  be  so  from  the 
very  first  day  they  had  met  at  his  aviary.  Miss 
Hawkins  lost  suddenly  much  of  her  piety  and 
all  her  patience,  and  laughed  rather  hysterically. 
Mr.  Hawkins  said  it  was  impossible,  but  went 
in  secret  to  consult  a  friend,  an  old  bachelor,  on 
the  best  remedy  for  love  ;  and  the  old  bachelor, 
as  one  well  versed  in  such  affairs,  gravely  advised 
him  to  think  of  the  lady  as  a  beautiful  statue  ! 

Once  more  the  indefatigable  school -girl  took 
up  her  pen,  and  wrote  to  her  foreign  correspond- 
ent a  letter  that  might  rival  the  famous  epistle  of 


A    TALE.  163 

Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  daughter,  announcing 
the  engagement  of  Mademoiselle  Montpensier. 
Through  the  whole  of  the  first  page,  she  told  her 
to  guess  who  the  lady  was  ;  through  the  whole  of 
the  second,  who  the  gentleman  was  ;  the  third 
was  devoted  to  what  was  said  about  it  in  the 
village  ;  and  on  the  fourth  there  were  two  post- 
scripts, one  at  the  top  and  the  other  at  the  bot- 
tom, the  first  stating  that  they  were  to  be  married 
in  the  Spring,  and  to  go  to  Italy  immediately 
afterwards,  and  the  last,  that  Alice  Archer  was 
dangerously  ill  with  a  fever. 

As  for  the  Churchills,  they  could  find  no  words 
powerful  enough  to  express  their  delight,  but 
gave  vent  to  it  in  a  banquet  on  Thanksgiving- day, 
in  which  the  wife  had  all  the  trouble  and  the 
husband  all  the  pleasure.  In  order  that  the 
entertainment  might  be  worthy  of  the  occasion, 
Mr.  Churchill  wrote  to  the  city  for  the  best 
cookery-book  ;  and  the  bookseller,  executing  the 
order  in  all  its  amplitude,  sent  him  the  Practical 
Guide  to  the  Culinary  Art  in  all  its  Branches,  by 
Frascatelli,  pupil  of  the  celebrated  Careme,  and 
Chief  Cook  to  Her  Majesty  the  Queen, — a 
ponderous  volume,  illustrated  with  numerous  en- 
gravings, and  furnished  with  bills  of  fare  for  every 


164  KAVANAGH, 

month  in  the  year,  and  any  number  of  persons. 
This  great  work  was  duly  studied,  evening  after 
evening ;  and  Mr.  Churchill  confessed  to  his  wife, 
that,  although  at  first  startled  by  the  size  of  the 
book,  he  had  really  enjoyed  it  very  highly,  and 
had  been  much  pleased  to  be  present  in  imagina- 
tion at  so  many  grand  entertainments,  and  to  sit 
opposite  the  Queen  without  having  to  change  his 
dress  or  the  general  style  of  his  conversation. 

The  dinner  hour,  as  well  as  the  dinner  itself, 
was  duly  debated.     Mr.  Churchill  was  in  favor 
of  the  usual  hour  of  one  ;  but  his  wife  thought  it 
should   be   an   hour   later.      Whereupon   he   re 
marked,  — 

"  King  Henry  the  Eighth  dined  at  ten  o'clock 
and  supped  at  four.  His  queen's  maids  of  honor 
had  a  gallon  of  ale  and  a  chine  of  beef  for  their 
breakfast." 

To  which  his  wife  answered,  — 

' c  I  hope  we  shall  have  something  a  little  more 
refined  than  that." 

The  day  on  which  the  banquet  should  take 
place  was  next  discussed,  and  both  agreed  that 
no  day  could  be  so  appropriate  as  Thanksgiving- 
day  ;  for,  as  Mrs.  Churchill  very  truly  remarked, 
it  was  really  a  day  of  thanksgiving  to  Kavanagh. 
She  then  said,  — 


A    TALE.  165 

"  How  very  solemnly  he  read  the  Governor's 
Proclamation  yesterday  !  particularly  the  words 
'  God  save  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachu- 
setts ! '  And  what  a  Proclamation  it  was  ! 
When  he  spread  it  out  on  the  pulpit,  it  looked 
like  a  table-cloth  !  " 

Mr.  Churchill  then  asked,  — 

"  What  day  of  the  week  is  the  first  of  Decem- 
ber ?  Let  me  see, — 

'  At  Dover  dwells  George  Brown,  Esquire, 
Good  Christopher  Finch  and  Daniel  Friar  !  ' 

Thursday." 

"  I  could  have  told  you  that,"  said  his  wife, 
"  by  a  shorter  process  than  your  old  rhyme. 
Thanksgiving-day  always  comes  on  Thursday." 

These  preliminaries  being  duly  settled,  the 
dinner  was  given. 

There  being  only  six  guests,  and  the  dinner 
being  modelled  upon  one  for  twenty-four  persons, 
Russian  style  in  November,  it  was  very  abundant. 
It  began  with  a  Colbert  soup,  and  ended  with  a 
Nesselrode  pudding  ;  but  as  no  allusion  was  made 
in  the  course  of  the  repast  to  the  French  names 
of  the  dishes,  and  the  mutton,  and  turnips,  and 
pancakes  were  all  called  by  their  English  patro- 


166  KAVANAGH, 

nymics,  the  dinner  appeared  less  magnificent  in 
reality  than  in  the  bill  of  fare,  and  the  guests  did 
not  fully  appreciate  how  superb  a  banquet  they 
were  enjoying.  The  hilarity  of  the  occasion 
was  not  marred  by  any  untoward  accident ; 
though  once  or  twice  Mr.  Churchill  was  much 
annoyed,  and  the  company  much  amused,  by 
Master  Alfred,  who  was  allowed  to  be  present 
at  the  festivities,  and  audibly  proclaimed  what 
was  coming,  long  before  it  made  its  appearance. 
When  the  dinner  was  over,  several  of  the  guests 
remembered  brilliant  and  appropriate  things  they 
might  have  said,  and  wondered  they  were  so 
dull  as  not  to  think  of  them  in  season  ;  and  when 
they  were  all  gone,  Mr.  Churchill  remarked  to  his 
wife  that  he  had  enjoyed  himself  very  much,  and 
that  he  should  like  to  ask  his  friends  to  just  such 
a  dinner  every  week  ! 


A    TALE.  167 


XXVIII. 

THE  first  snow  came.  How  beautiful  it  was, 
falling  so  silently,  all  day  long,  all  night  long,  on 
the  mountains,  on  the  meadows,  on  the  roofs  of 
the  living,  on  the  graves  of  the  dead  !  All  white 
save  the  river,  that  marked  its  course  by  a 
winding  black  line  across  the  landscape  ;  and 
the  leafless  trees,  that  against  the  leaden  sky 
now  revealed  more  fully  the  wonderful  beauty  and 
intricacy  of  their  branches  ! 

What  silence,  too,  came  with  the  snow,  and 
what  seclusion  !  Every  sound  was  muffled,  every 
noise  changed  to  something  soft  and  musical. 
No  more  trampling  hoofs, — no  more  rattling 
wheels  !  Only  the  chiming  sleigh-bells,  beating 
as  swift  and  merrily  as  the  hearts  of  children. 

All  day  long,  all  night  long,  the  snow  fell  on 
the  village  and  on  the  church-yard  ;  on  the  happy 


168  KAVANAGH, 

home  of  Cecilia  Vaughan,  on  the  lonely  grave 
of  Alice  Archer  !  Yes  ;  for  before  the  winter 
came  she  had  gone  to  that  land  where  winter 
never  comes.  Her  long  domestic  tragedy  was 
ended.  She  was  dead  ;  and  with  her  had  died 
her  secret  sorrow  and  her  secret  love.  Kava- 
nagh  never  knew  what  wealth  of  affection  for  him 
faded  from  the  world  when  she  departed ;  Cecilia 
never  knew  what  fidelity  of  friendship,  what 
delicate  regard,  what  gentle  magnanimity,  what 
angelic  patience  had  gone  with  her  into  the  grave ; 
Mr.  Churchill  never  knew,  that,  while  he  was  ex- 
ploring the  Past  for  records  of  obscure  and  un- 
known martyrs,  in  his  own  village,  near  his  own 
door,  before  his  own  eyes,  one  of  that  silent 
sisterhood  had  passed  away  into  oblivion,  un- 
noticed and  unknown. 

How  often,  ah,  how  often,  between  the  desire 
of  the  heart  and  its  fulfilment,  lies  only  the  brief- 
est space  of  time  and  distance,  and  yet  the  desire 
remains  forever  unfulfilled  !  It  is  so  near  that  we 
can  touch  it  with  the  hand,  and  yet  so  far  away 
that  the  eye  cannot  perceive  it.  What  Mr. 
Churchill  most  desired  was  before  him.  The 
Romance  he  was  longing  to  find  and  record  had 
really  occurred  in  his  neighbourhood,  among  his 


A    TALE.  169 

own  friends.  It  had  been  set  like  a  picture 
into  the  frame-work  of  his  life,  inclosed  within 
his  own  experience.  But  he  could  not  see  it 
as  an  object  apart  from  himself;  and  as  he  was 
gazing  at  what  was  remote  and  strange  and  in- 
distinct, the  nearer  incidents  of  aspiration,  love, 
and  death,  escaped  him.  They  were  too  near  to 
be  clothed  by  the  imagination  with  the  golden 
vapors  of  romance  ;  for  the  familiar  seems  trivial, 
and  only  the  distant  and  unknown  completely  fill 
and  satisfy  the  mind. 

The  winter  did  not  pass  without  its  peculiar 
delights  and  recreations.  The  singing  of  the 
great  wood  fires  ;  the  blowing  of  the  wind  over 
the  chimney-tops,  as  if  they  wrere  organ  pipes  ; 
the  splendor  of  the  spotless  snow  ;  the  purple 
wall  built  round  the  horizon  at  sunset  ;  the  sea- 
suggesting  pines,  with  the  moan  of  the  billows  in 
their  branches,  on  which  the  snows  were  furled 
like  sails  ;  the  northern  lights  ;  the  stars  of  steel  ; 
the  transcendent  moonlight,  and  the  lovely  shad- 
ows of  the  leafless  trees  upon  the  snow  ;  —  these 
things  did  not  pass  unnoticed  nor  unremembered. 
Every  one  of  them  made  its  record  upon  the 
heart  of  Mr.  Churchill. 

His  twilight  walks,  his  long  Saturday  afternoon 


170  KAVANAGH, 

rambles,  had  again  become  solitary  ;  for  Kavanagh 
was  lost  to  him  for  such  purposes,  and  his  wife" 
was  one  of  those  women  who  never  walk. 
Sometimes  he  went  down  to  the  banks  of  the 
frozen  river,  and  saw  the  farmers  crossing  it 
with  their  heavy-laden  sleds,  and  the  Fairmeadow 
schooner  imbedded  in  the  ice  ;  and  thought  of 
Lapland  sledges,  and  the  song  of  Kulnasatz,  and 
the  dismantled,  ice-locked  vessels  of  the  explorers 
in  the  Arctic  Ocean.  Sometimes  he  went  to  the 
neighbouring  lake,  and  saw  the  skaters  wheeling 
round  their  fire,  and  speeding  away  before  the 
wind  ;  and  in  his  imagination  arose  images  of  the 
Norwegian  Skate-Runners,  bearing  the  tidings  of 
King  Charles's  death  from  Frederickshall  to 
Drontheim,  and  of  the  retreating  Swedish  army, 
frozen  to  death  in  its  fireless  tents  among  the 
mountains.  And  then  he  would  watch  the  cut- 
ting of  the  ice  with  ploughs,  and  the  horses  drag- 
ging the  huge  blocks  to  the  store-houses,  and 
contrast  them  with  the  Grecian  mules,  bearing  the 
snows  of  Mount  Parnassus  to  the  markets  of 
Athens,  in  panniers  protected  from  the  sun  by 
boughs  of  oleander  and  rhododendron. 

The  rest  of  his  leisure  hours  were  employed  in 
any   thing   and    every  thing    save   in  writing   his 


A    TALE.  171 

Romance.  A  great  deal  of  time  was  daily 
consumed  in  reading  the  newspapers,  because  it 
was  necessary,  he  said,  to  keep  up  with  the 
times  ;  and  a  great  deal  more  in  writing  a 
Lyceum  Lecture,  on  u  What  Lady  Macbeth 
might  have  been,  had  her  energies  been  properly 
directed."  He  also  made  some  little  progress  in 
a  poetical  arithmetic,  founded  on  Bhascara's,  but 
relinquished  it,  because  the  school  committee 
thought  it  was  not  practical  enough,  and  more 
than  hinted  that  he  had  better  adhere  to  the  old 
system.  And  still  the  vision  of  the  great 
Romance  moved  before  his  mind,  august  and 
glorious,  a  beautiful  mirage  of  the  desert. 


172  KAVANAGH, 


XXIX. 

« 

THE  wedding  did  not  take  place  till  Spring. 
And  then  Kavanagh  and  his  Cecilia  departed  on 
their  journey  to  Italy  and  the  East, — a  sacred 
mission,  a  visit  like  the  Apostle's  to  the  Seven 
Churches,  nay,  to  all  the  Churches  of  Christen- 
dom ;  hoping  by  some  means  to  sow  in  many 
devout  hearts  the  desire  and  prophecy  that  'filled 
his  own, — the  union  of  all  sects  into  one  univers- 
al Church  of  Christ.  They  intended  to  be  absent 
one  year  only  ;  they  were  gone  three.  It  seemed 
to  their  friends  that  they  never  wonld  return. 
But  at  length  they  came,  —  the  long  absent,  the 
long  looked  for,  the  long  desired,  —  bearing  with 
them  that  delicious  perfume  of  travel,  that  genial, 
sunny  atmosphere,  and  soft,  Ausonian  air,  which 
returning  travellers  always  bring  about  them. 


A    TALE.  173 

It  was  night  when  they  reached  the  village, 
and  they  could  not  see  what  changes  had  taken 
place  in  it  during  their  absence.  How  it  had 
dilated  and  magnified  itself,  —  how  it  had  puffed 
itself  up,  and  bedizened  itself  with  flaunting, 
ostentatious  signs,  —  how  it  stood,  rotund  and 
rubicund  with  brick,  like  a  portly  man,  with  his 
back  to  the  fire  and  both  hands  in  his  pockets, 
warm,  expansive,  apoplectic,  and  entertaining  a 
very  favorable  opinion  of  himself,  —  all  this  they 
did  not  see,  for  the  darkness  ;  but  Kavanagh 
beheld  it  all,  and  more,  when  he  went  forth  on 
the  following  morning. 

How  Cecilia's  heart  beat  as  they  drove  up  the 
avenue  to  the  old  house  !  The  piny  odors  in  the 
night  air,  the  solitary  light  at  her  father's  window, 
the  familiar  bark  of  the  dog  Major  at  the  sound  of 
the  wheels,  awakened  feelings  at  once  new  and 
old.  A  sweet  perplexity  of  thought,  a  strange 
familiarity,  a  no  less  pleasing  strangeness  !  The 
lifting  of  the  heavy  brass  latch,  and  the  jarring  of 
the  heavy  brass  knocker  as  the  door  closed,  were 
echoes  from  her  childhood.  Mr.  Vaughan  they 
found,  as  usual,  among  his  papers  in  the  study ;  — 
the  same  bland,  white-haired  man,  hardly  a  day 
older  than  when  they  left.  At  the  sight  of  him, 


174  KAVANAGH, 

the  whole  long  absence  in  Italy  became  a  dream, 
and  vanished  away.  Even  Kavanagh  was  for  the 
moment  forgotten.  She  was  a  daughter,  not  a 
wife  ;  —  she  had  not  been  married,  she  had  not 
been  in  Italy  ! 

In  the  morning,  Kavanagh  sallied  forth  to  find 
the  Fairmeadow  of  his  memory,  but  found  it  not. 
The  railroad  had  completely  transformed  it.  The 
simple  village  had  become  a  very  precocious 
town.  New  shops,  with  new  names  over  the 
doors  ;  new  streets,  with  new  forms  and  faces  in 
them  ;  the  whole  town  seemed  to  have  been  taken 
and  occupied  by  a  besieging  army  of  strangers. 
Nothing  was  permanent  but  the  work-house, 
standing  alone  in  the  pasture  by  the  river  ;  and, 
at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  school-house,  that 
other  work-house,  where  in  childhood  we  pick 
and  untwist  the  cordage  of  the  brain,  that,  later  in 
life,  we  may  not  be  obliged  to  pull  to  pieces  the 
more  material  cordage  of  old  ships. 

Kavanagh  soon  turned  in  despair  from  the  main 
street  into  a  little  green  lane,  where  there  were 
few  houses,  and  where  the  barberry  still  nodded 
over  the  old  stone  wall ;  —  a  place  he  had  much 
loved  in  the  olden  time  for  its  silence  and  seclu- 
sion. He  seemed  to  have  entered  his  ancient 


A    TALE.  175 

realm  of  dreams  again,  and  was  walking  with  his 
hat  drawn  a  little  over  his  eyes.  He  had  not 
proceeded  far,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  woman's 
voice,  quite  sharp  and  loud,  crying  from  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  lane.  Looking  up,  he  beheld  a 
small  cottage,  against  the  wall  of  which  rested  a 
ladder,  and  on  this  ladder  stood  the  wornan  from 
whom  the  voice  came.  Her  face  was  nearly 
concealed  by  a  spacious  gingham  sun-bonnet,  and 
in  her  right  hand  she  held  extended  a  large  brush, 
with  which  she  was  painting  the  front  of  her 
cottage,  when  interrupted  by  the  approach  of 
Kavanagh,  who,  thinking  she  was  calling  to  him, 
but  not  understanding  what  she  said,  made  haste 
to  cross  over  to  her  assistance.  At  this  move- 
ment her  tone  became  louder  and  more  peremp- 
tory ;  and  he  could  now  understand  that  her  cry 
was  rather  ,a  warning  than  an  invitation. 

"  Go  away  !  "  she  said,  flourishing  her  brush. 
"  Go  away  '  What  are  you  coming  down  here 
for,  when  I  am  on  the  ladder,  painting  my  house  ? 
If  you  don't  go  right  about  your  business,  I  will 
come  down  and " 

"Why,  Miss  Manchester  !"  exclaimed  Kava- 
nagh ;  "  how  could  I  know  that  you  would  be 
going  up  the  ladder  just  as  I  came  down  the 
lane  ?  " 


176  KAVANAGH, 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  if  it  is  not  Mr.  Kava- 
nagh  !  » 

And  she  scrambled  down  the  ladder  backwards 
with  as  much  grace  as  the  circumstances  permit- 
ted. She,  too,  like  the  rest  of  his  friends  in  the 
village,  showed  symptoms  of  growing  older.  The 
passing  years  had  drunk  a  portion  of  the  light 
from  her  eyes,  and  left  their  traces  on  her  cheeks, 
as  birds  that  drink  at  lakes  leave  their  foot-prints 
on  the  margin.  But  the  pleasant  smile  remained, 
and  reminded  him  of  the  by-gone  days,  when  she 
used  to  open  for  him  the  door  of  the  gloomy 
house  under  the  poplars. 

Many  things  had  she  to  ask,  and  many  to  tell  ; 
and  for  full  half  an  hour  Kavanagh  stood  leaning 
over  the  paling,  while  she  remained  among  the 
hollyhocks,  as  stately  and  red  as  the  plants  them- 
selves. At  parting,  she  gave  him  one  of  the 
flowers  for  his  wife  ;  and,  when  he  was  fairly  out 
of  sight,  again  climbed  the  perilous  ladder,  and 
resumed  her  fresco  painting. 

Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  these  later  years, 
Sally  had  remained  true  to  her  principles  and 
resolution.  At  Mrs.  Archer's  death,  which  oc- 
cured  soon  after  Kavanagh's  wedding,  she  had 
retired  to  this  little  cottage,  bought  and  paid  for 


A    TALE.  177 

by  her  own  savings.  Though  often  urged  by 
Mr.  Vaughan's  man,  Silas,  who  breathed  his 
soul  out  upon  the  air  of  Summer  evenings 
through  a  keyed  bugle,  she  resolutely  refused  to 
marry.  In  vain  did  he  send  her  letters  written 
with  his  own  blood,  —  going  barefooted  into  the 
brook  to  be  bitten  by  leeches,  and  then  using 
his  feet  as  inkstands  :  she  refused  again  and 
again.  Was  it  that  in  some  blue  chamber, 
or  some  little  warm  back  parlour,  of  her  heart, 
the  portrait  of  the  inconstant  dentist  was  still 
hanging  ?  Alas,  no  !  But  as  to  some  hearts  it 
is  given  in  youth  to  blossom  with  the  fragrant 
blooms  of  young  desire,  so  others  are  doomed 
by  a  mysterious  destiny  to  be  checked  in  Spring 
by  chill  winds,  blowing  over  the  bleak  common 
of  the  world.  So  had  it  been  with  her  desires 
and  thoughts  of  love.  Fear  now  predominated 
over  hope  ;  and  to  die  unmarried  had  become 
to  her  a  fatality  which  she  dared  not  resist. 

In  the  course  of  his  long  conversation  with  Miss 
Manchester,  Kavanagh  learned  many  things  about 
the  inhabitants  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Wilmer dings 
was  still  carrying  on  her  labors  in  the  u  Dun- 
stable  and  eleven-braid,  open-work  and  colored 
straws."  Her  husband  had  taken  to  the  tavern, 
12 


178  KAVANAGH, 

and  often  came  home  very  late,  "  with  a  brick 
in  his  hat,"  as  Sally  expressed  it.  Their  son 
and  heir  was  far  away  in  the  Pacific,  on  board 
a  whale-ship.  Miss  Amelia  Hawkins  remained 
unmarried,  though  possessing  a  talent  for  matri- 
mony which  amounted  almost  to  genius.  Her 
brother,  the  poet,  was  no  more.  Finding  it  im- 
possible to  follow  the  old  bachelor's  advice,  and 
look  upon  Miss  Vaughan  as  a  beautiful  statue, 
he  made  one  or  two  attempts,  but  in  vain,  to 
throw  himself  away  on  unworthy  objects,  and 
then  died.  At  this  event,  two  elderly  maidens 
went  into  mourning  simultaneously,  each  thinking 
herself  engaged  to  him  ;  and  suddenly  went  out 
of  it  again,  mutually  indignant  with  each  other, 
and  mortified  with  themselves.  The  little  taxi- 
dermist was  still  hopping  about  in  his  aviary, 
looking  more  than  ever  like  his  gray  African 
parrot.  Mrs.  Archer's  house  was  uninhabited. 


A    TALE.  179 


XXX. 

KAVANAGH  continued  his  walk  in  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Churchill's  residence.  This,  at  least, 
was  unchanged,  —  quite  unchanged.  The  same 
white  front  ;  the  same  brass  knocker  ;  the  same 
old  wooden  gate,  with  its  chain  and  ball  ;  the  same 
damask  roses  under  the  windows  ;  the  same  sun- 
shine without  and  within.  The  outer  door  and 
study  door  were  both  open,  as  usual  in  the  warm 
weather  ;  and  at  the  table  sat  Mr.  Churchill, 
writing.  Over  each  ear  was  a  black  and  inky 
stump  of  a  pen,  which,  like  the  two  ravens 
perched  on  Odin's  shoulders,  seemed  to  whisper 
to  him  all  that  passed  in  heaven  and  on  earth. 
On  this  occasion,  their  revelations  were  of  the 
earth.  He  was  correcting  school  exercises. 

The  joyful  welcome  of  Mr.  Churchill,  as 
Kavanagh  entered,  and  the  cheerful  sound  of 


180  KAVANAGH, 

their  voices,  soon  brought  Mrs.  Churchill  to  the 
study,  —  her  eyes  bluer  than  ever,  her  cheeks 
fairer,  her  form  more  round  and  full.  The 
children  came  in  also,  —  Alfred  grown  to  boy's 
estate  and  exalted  into  a  jacket  ;  and  the  baby 
-that  was,  less  than  two  years  behind  him,  and 
catching  all  his  falling  mantles,  and  all  his  tricks 
and  maladies. 

Kavanagh  found  Mr.  Churchill  precisely  where 
he  left  him.  He  had  not  advanced  one  step,  — 
not  one.  The  same  dreams,  the  same  longings, 
the  same  aspirations,  the  same  indecision.  A 
thousand  things  had  been  planned,  and  none  com- 
pleted. His  imagination  seemed  still  to  exhaust 
itself  in  running,  before  it  tried  to  leap  the  ditch. 
While  he  mused,  the  fire  burned  in  other  brains. 
Other  hands  wrote  the  books  he  dreamed  about. 
He  freely  used  his  good  ideas  in  conversation, 
and  in  letters  ;  and  they  were  straightway  wrought 
into  the  texture  of  other  men's  books,  and  so 
lost  to  him  for  ever.  His  work  on  Obscure 
Martyrs  was  anticipated  by  Mr.  Hathaway,  who, 
catching  the  idea  from  him,  wrote  and  published 
a  series  of  papers  on  Unknown  Saints,  before 
Mr.  Churchill  had  fairly  arranged  his  materials. 
Before  he  had  written  a  chapter  of  his  great  Ro- 


A    TALE.  181 

mance,  another  friend  and  novelist  had  published 
one  on  the  same  subject. 

Poor  Mr.  Churchill  !  So  far  as  fame  and  ex- 
ternal success  were  concerned,  his  life  certainly 
was  a  failure.  He  was,  perhaps,  too  deeply 
freighted,  too  much  laden  by  the  head,  to  ride 
the  waves  gracefully.  Every  sea  broke  over 
him,  —  he  was  half  the  time  under  water  ! 

All  his  defects  and  mortifications  he  attributed 
to  the  outward  circumstances  of  his  life,  the  exi- 
gencies of  his  profession,  the  accidents  of  chance. 
But,  in  reality,  they  lay  much  deeper  than  this. 
They  were  within  himself.  He  wanted  the  all- 
controlling,  all-subduing  will.  He  wanted  the 
fixed  purpose  that  sways  and  bends  all  circum- 
stances to  its  uses,  as  the  wind  bends  the  reeds 
and  rushes  beneath  it. 

In  a  few  minutes,  and  in  that  broad  style  of 
handling,  in  which  nothing  is  distinctly  defined,  but 
every  thing  clearly  suggested,  Kavanagh  sketched 
to  his  friends  his  three  years'  life  in  Italy  and  the 
East.  And  then,  turning  to  Mr.  Churchill,  he 
said,  — 

"  And  you,  my  friend,  —  what  have  you  been 
doing  all  this  while  ?  You  have  written  to  me 
so  rarely  that  I  have  hardly  kept  pace  with  you. 


182  KAVANAGH, 

But  I  have  thought  of  you  constantly.  In  all  the 
old  cathedrals  ;  in  all  the  lovely  landscapes  ; 
among  the  Alps  and  Apennines  ;  in  looking  down 
on  Duomo  d'Ossola  ;  at  the  Inn  of  Baveno  ;  at 
Gaeta ;  at  Naples  ;  in  old  and  mouldy  Rome  ; 
in  older  Egypt  ;  in  the  Holy  Land  ;  in  all  galle- 
ries and  churches  and  ruins  ;  in  our  rural  retire- 
ment at  Fiesoli  ;  —  whenever  I  have  seen  any 
thing  beautiful,  I  have  thought  of  you,  and  of 
how  much  you  would  have  enjoyed  it  !  " 

Mr.  Churchill  sighed  ;  and  then,  as  if,  with  a 
touch  as  masterly,  he  would  draw  a  picture  that 
should  define  nothing,  but  suggest  every  thing, 
he  said,  — 

"  You  have  no  children,  Kavanagh  ;  we  have 
five." 

"  Ah,  so  many  already  !  "  exclaimed  Kava- 
nagh. "  A  living  Pentateuch  !  A  beautiful  Pen- 
tapylon,  or  five -gated  temple  of  Life  !  A  charm- 
ing number  !  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Churchill ;  "  a  beautiful 
number  ;  Juno's  own  ;  the  wedding  of  the  first 
even  and  first  uneven  numbers  ;  the  number 
sacred  to  marriage,  but  having  no  reference, 
direct  or  indirect,  to  the  Pythagorean  novitiate 
of  five  years  of  silence." 


A    TALE.  183 

cc  No  ;  it  certainly  is  not  the  vocation  of  chil- 
dren to  be  silent,"  said  Kavanagh,  laughing. 
"  That  would  be  out  of  nature  ;  saving  always 
the  children  of  the  brain,  which  do  not  often  make 
so  much  noise  in  the  world  as  we  desire.  I  hope 
a  still  larger  family  of  these  has  grown  up  around 
you  during  my  absence." 

"  Quite  otherwise,"  answered  the  school- 
master, sadly.  "  My  brain  has  been  almost  bar- 
ren of  songs.  I  have  only  been  trifling  ;  and  I  am 
afraid,  that,  if  I  play  any  longer  with  Apollo,  the 
untoward  winds  will  blow  the  discus  of  the  god 
against  my  forehead,  and  strike  me  dead  with  it, 
as  they  did  Hyacinth  of  old." 

"  And  your  Romance, — have  you  been  more 
successful  with  that  ?  I  hope  it  is  finished,  or 
nearly  finished  ?  " 

"  Not  yet  begun,"  said  Mr.  Churchill.  "  The 
plan  and  characters  still  remain  vague  and  indefi- 
nite in  my  mind.  I  have  not  even  found  a  name 
for  it." 

"  That  you  can  determine  after  the  book  is 
written,"  suggested  Kavanagh.  "  You  can  name 
it,  for  instance,  as  the  old  Heimskringla  was 
named,  from  the  initial  word  of  the  first  chapter." 

"  Ah !  that  was  very  well  in  the  olden  time, 


184  KAVANAGH, 

and  in  Iceland,  when  there  were  no  quarterly 
reviews.  It  would  be  called  affectation  now." 

"  I  see  you  still  stand  a  little  in  awe  of  opinion. 
Never  fear  that.  The  strength  of  criticism  lies 
only  in  the  weakness  of  the  thing  criticized." 

"  That  is  the  truth,  Kavanagh ;  and  I  am 
more  afraid  of  deserving  criticism  than  of  receiv- 
ing it.  I  stand  in  awe  of  my  own  opinion.  The 
secret  demerits  of  which  we  alone,  perhaps,  are 
conscious,  are  often  more  difficult  to  bear  than 
those  which  have  been  publicly  censured  in  us, 
and  thus  in  some  degree  atoned  for." 

"  I  will  not  say,"  replied  Kavanagh,  "  that 
humility  is  the  only  road  to  excellence,  but  I  am 
sure  that  it  is  one -road." 

"  Yes,  humility  ;  but  not  humiliation,"  sighed 
Mr.  Churchill,  despondingly.  u  As  for  excel- 
lence, I  can  only  desire  it,  and  dream  of  it  ;  I 
cannot  attain  to  it ;  it  lies  too  far  from  me  ;  I 
cannot  reach  it.  These  very  books  about  me 
here,  that  once  stimulated  me  to  action,  have 
now  become  my  accusers.  They  are  my  Eu- 
menides,  and  drive  me  to  despair." 

"  My  friend,"  said  Kavanagh,  after  a  short 
pause,  during  which  he  had  taken  note  of  Mr. 
Churchill's  sadness,  "  that  is  not  always  excel- 


A    TALE.  185 

lent  which  lies  far  away  from  us.  What  is  re- 
mote and  difficult  of  access  we  are  apt  to  over- 
rate ;  what  is  really  best  for  us  lies  always  within 
our  reach,  though  often  overlooked.  To  speak 
frankly,  I  am  afraid  this  is  the  case  with  your 
Romance.  You  are  evidently  grasping  at  some- 
thing which  lies  beyond  the  confines  of  your  own 
experience,  and  which,  consequently,  is  only  a 
play  of  shadows  in  the  realm  of  fancy.  The 
figures  have  no  vitality  ;  they  are  only  outward 
sh^ws,  wanting  inward  life.  We  can  give  to 
others  only  what  we  have." 

"  And  if  we  have  nothing  worth  giving  ? "  in- 
terrupted Mr.  Churchill. 

"No  man  is  so  poor  as  that.  As  well  might 
the  mountain  streamlets  say  they  have  nothing 
worth  giving  to  the  sea,  because  they  are  not 
rivers.  Give  what  you  have.  To  some  one,  it 
may  be  better  than  you  dare  to  think.  If  you 
had  looked  nearer  for  the  materials  of  your 
Romance,  and  had  set  about  it  in  earnest,  it 
would  now  have  been  finished." 

"  And  burned,  perhaps,"  interposed  Mr. 
Churchill;  "  or  sunk  with  the  books  of  Simon 
Magus  to  the  bottom  of  the  Dead  Sea." 

"  At  all  events,  you  would  have  had  the  pleas- 


186  KAVANAGH, 

ure  of  writing  it.  I  remember  one  of  the  old 
traditions  of  Art,  from  which  you  may  perhaps 
draw  a  moral.  When  Raphael  desired  to  paint 
his  Holy  Family,  for  a  long  time  he  strove  in 
vain  to  express  the  idea  that  filled  and  possessed 
his  soul.  One  morning,  as  he  walked  beyond  the 
city  gates,  meditating  the  sacred  theme,  he  be- 
held, sitting  beneath  a  vine  at  her  cottage  door,  a 
peasant  woman,  holding  a  boy  in  her  arms,  while 
another  leaned  upon  her  knee,  and  gazed  at  the 
approaching  stranger.  The  painter  found  here,  in 
real  life,  what  he  had  so  long  sought  for  in  vain  in 
the  realms  of  his  imagination  ;  and  quickly,  with 
his  chalk  pencil,  he  sketched,  upon  the  head  of  a 
wine-cask  that  stood  near  them,  the  lovely  group, 
which  afterwards,  when  brought  into  full  perfec- 
tion, became  the  transcendent  Madonna  della 
Seggiola." 

"All  this  is  true,"  replied  Mr.  Churchill, 
u  but  it  gives  me  no  consolation.  I  now  despair 
of  writing  any  thing  excellent.  I  have  no  time  to 
devote  to  meditation  and  study.  My  life  is  given 
to  others,  and  to  this  destiny  I  submit  without  a 
murmur ;  for  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  having 
labored  faithfully  in  my  calling,  and  of  having 
perhaps  trained  and  incited  others  to  do  what  I 


A    TALE.  187 

shall  never  do.  Life  is  still  precious  to  me  for 
its  many  uses,  of  which  the  writing  of  books  is 
but  one.  I  do  not  complain,  but  accept  this 
destiny,  and  say,  with  that  pleasant  author, 
Marcus  Antoninus,  c  Whatever  is  agreeable  to 
thee  shall  be  agreeable  to  me,  O  graceful  Uni- 
verse !  nothing  shall  be  to  me  too  early  or  too 
late,  which  is  seasonable  to  thee  !  Whatever  thy 
seasons  bear  shall  be  joyful  fruit  to  me,  O 
Nature  !  from  thee  are  all  things  ;  in  thee  they 
subsist  ;  to  thee  they  return.  Could  one  say, 
Thou  dearly  beloved  city  of  Cecrops  ?  and  wilt 
thou  not  say,  Thou  dearly  beloved  city  of 
God  ? '  " 

"  Amen  !  "  said  Kavanagh.  "  And,  to  follow 
your  quotation  with  another,  c  The  gale  that 
blows  from  God  we  must  endure,  toiling  but  not 
repining.'  " 

Here  Mrs.  Churchill,  who  had  something  of 
Martha  in  her,  as  well  as  of  Mary,  and  had  left 
the  room  when  the  conversation  took  a  literary 
turn,  came  back  to  announce  that  dinner  was 
ready,  and  Kavanagh,  though  warmly  urged  to 
stay,  took  his  leave,  having  first  obtained  from  the 
Churchills  the  promise  of  a  visit  to  Cecilia  during 
the  evening. 


188  KAVANAGH. 

} 

"  Nothing  done  !  nothing  done  !  "  exclaimed 
he,  as  he  wended  his  way  homeward,  musing  and 
meditating.  cc  And  shall  all  these  lofty  aspira- 
tions end  in  nothing  ?  Shall  the  arms  be  thus 
stretched  forth  to  encircle  the  universe,  and  come 
back  empty  against  a  bleeding,  aching  breast  ?  " 

And  the  words  of  the  poet  came  into  his 
mind,  and  he  thought  them  worthy  to  be  written 
in  letters  of  gold,  and  placed  above  every  door  in 
every  house,  as  a  warning,  a  suggestion,  an  in- 
citement :  — 

"  Stay,  stay  the  present  instant ! 
Imprint  the  marks  of  wisdom  on  its  wings ! 
0,  let  it  not  elude  thy  grasp,  but  like 
The  good  old  patriarch  upon  record, 
Hold  the  fleet  angel  fast  until  he  bless  thee  !  " 


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